Reckless Abandonment
by Buddy Kenneth
Summary: With the Golden Trio focused on finding Voldemort's horcruxes, Morgan Caldwell is entrusted to go back in time to find something the Dark Lord hid during his 6th year at Hogwarts. She was prepared for trouble, but not a charming Tom Riddle. SEE PROFILE FOR NEWS CONCERNING UPDATES!
1. Prologue

**A/N: **Okay, so this is my first Harry Potter Fanfiction. The whole story is already planned out and such. Now all that is needed is welcomed thoughts and suggestions in the form of lovely reviews(:

And even though I find it rather ridiculous that I have to say this -- because this site_ is_ called fanfiction -- I'll put up a clever little disclaimer anyway: I do not own Harry Potter, if I did I would not be wasting my time doing this. I would most likely be in Jamica, or the Bahamas, or somewhere as equally pleasent.

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**Prologue: Dying**

_Well, _she thought rather dully, _this is it._

Out of all the places she believed she would get unceremoniously killed, it was certainly not _here._

But, she supposed it had to happen somewhere, so why _not _here?

The past months had been way too good to be true. She had forgotten herself. Forgotten the dark and desolate future she had come from. It had just been too easy to disregard all her troubles.

At least she hadn't let Dumbledore or Harry or Ron or Hermione or that annoying redheaded Ginny down. Hell, she figured even _Snape _would crack one of his I'm-really-happy-and-smiling-I-just-don't-want-you-to-know-it smirks.

She had followed all of their instructions to the tee. Except for the _"Oh and please be very careful and try not to get yourself killed"_ part. But hey, she believed it was her right to leave some of their words up to creative interpretation.

"Please be careful," when she interpreted it, stood for, "Well, you're probably gunna die anyway, just put it off until the last moment. Procrastination can only help you in regards to dying."

So, maybe she really _had_ followed all of their rules and such.

A tall figure was making their way towards her now, and she braced herself. He was beautiful, she wouldn't deny it. Even after chasing her he looked perfect, with milky pale skin, dark eyes, sharp features, and a careless smile pulling at his lips.

Her mind flashed to the events of her past year in 1944:

Pain.

A lot of danger.

Not enough regret.

The beautiful boy came to a stop a few feet before her, his wand twirling absently in his hands, his hardened gaze bearing down on her.

She grinned in response, "Hello Tom. Fancy seeing you here…"


	2. Chapter One

**A/N: **Okay, a little background on this. The story starts off towards the middle of what would be Harry Potter's seventh year at Hogwarts. This story is going to be slightly AU, but not too badly. And don't worry, we'll get to see Tom Riddle in the second or third chapter. Reviews would be greatly appreciated, as they give me insentive to write more.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter....yet.

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**Chapter One: Death Eater**

'_He's extremely happy. On any day that's bloody terrible news, but today of all days, it's disastrous. He just figured out we're destroying his Horcruxes and honestly, I have no idea why the bastard would be excited to hear that. Something's wrong._

_--Harry'_

"What an insolent boy," Snape hissed under his breath. "Do you see this? Do you see whom you've entrusted your great task to?"

"I assure you, Severus, I have no idea why you're scorning him at a time like this." Dumbledore's portrait shifted uneasily in its painted chair. His blue eyes seemed to maintain their characteristic twinkle.

Snape was not consoled by the previous headmaster, "Has he no sense? This letter could have given away his location! Sending it to McGonagall! The whole school could have been jeopardized. Had this letter been caught my position as Headmaster would have come into question, as well as my loyalties. Potter must be losing the little mind he has out there."

With a quick billowing of his dark robes, the current Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry sank into the chair behind his desk. His head settled into his hands and he sighed deeply. "I never liked your orders from the beginning, Dumbledore; you could be handling this situation much better than me."

"Killing me was necessary to preserve Draco's innocence. Besides, I was dying already, thanks to the Horcrux ring; there was no other choice."

Snape waved a dismissive hand in the direction of Dumbledore's picture, "No use in discussing this further," he said simply. "What do you make of the letter? Why is the Dark Lord pleased if he has figured out Potter is getting closer and closer to making him mortal?"

The old painted wizard considered his words carefully before speaking, "I have my suspicions, though I believe it would be best to confirm them before I elaborate further."

"So I take it you're not going to share your ideas with me, as normal?"

"No need to sound bitter, Severus. I do not wish to cloud your mind with thoughts that may or may not have credibility." Dumbledore stood up from his chair and began pacing the length of the painting. "Tell me, is Voldemort coming to the school soon?"

"Yes." Snape straightened in his chair at the mention of the Dark Wizard visiting. "He has decided to start recruiting Death Eaters from a young age. He plans on coming to…test out the abilities of our sixth and seventh years. Those with abilities he finds fitting will be forced to join his following."

"I don't like this," Dumbledore sighed unhappily. "And there is no way out of it? No way to dissuade him from taking such actions?"

"The Dark Lord hardly rethinks decisions he has already made. You seem to overestimate his trust in me, Dumbledore."

"I suppose we should use the situation to our advantage then. I want you to try and find what Voldemort is so happy about."

Snape jumped from his seat and began pacing again, his teeth gritted. "That will be very troublesome. But I will…_try_." The reluctance in his tone was obvious.

"I believe, Severus, that Lily would be very proud."

At the mention of the woman whom he loved so desperately, Snape's face became an impassive mask. "Yes… I suppose she would."

---

"Right, well, thanks for coming, I guess." Neville pulled at his tie angrily, pacing the room as he surveyed the wizards and witches before him. "If you haven't heard yet, You-Know-Who is coming to the school in an hour. He's gunna try forcing students to become Death Eaters."

The circular room Neville had the Room of Requirement conjure up for Dumbledore's Army was fitted with multiple couches. Several D.A. members were seated on each one, their hardened gazes either burning into Neville or laying absently on the carpeted floor. No one said a word.

"I think we should take advantage of this."

Ginny Weasley jumped up from her seat, "What are you saying Neville?"

"That we should kill him," Neville stopped his pacing and leaned against the sole fireplace in the room. "Think about it, he would never expect a student to attack him. It's our perfect chance! We could do it! We could end this right now!" The D.A. leader couldn't help but let excitement distort his normally serious tone.

Seamus grinned nervously, "I think we might have to. I can't stand the Carrow's, or Snape for that matter, and the year's only half-way over. If we don't do this we could all go crazy."

Several other D.A. members let out tight-lipped chuckles. As they died out the room became deathly silent.

"Who's gunna do it?" Hannah Abbott locked gazes with Neville. "I think we all know what that would mean, to kill him."

No one responded.

"I'll do it." Neville said sternly after a long moment. "It's my idea, I'll do it."

"No!" Ginny spun around to face him, "You can't Neville! We need you here. Besides, you have your grandmother. _I'll_ do it."

Michael Corner jumped out of his seat, "Ginny, you can't do it either!"

The red-headed witch glared at the Ravenclaw, "Just because we dated last year gives you no right to say what I can and can't do."

Michael blushed, "That's not – I meant – What about your family? Your brothers will kill us. You can't."

"If not me, then who!?" Ginny demanded. "No one wants someone to _die_! But it's the only choice. I can do it. I ca –"

The loud slamming of a door broke off the young witch's protests. A deathly pale and malnourished looking student had entered the D.A. headquarters. Holding a wet cloth to her head, the Gryffindor girl glanced around the room impishly, "Sorry to interrupt your heroic speech of sacrifice." Her voice was scratchy and hoarse.

Neville winced, taking long strides to the witch. Slowly, he reached out and removed the cloth from her forehead. A large beaten bruise colored her usually bland skin. "Ouch. What happened?"

"Alecto Carrow does _not_ like being told her precious Dark Lord is a half-blood."

"Morgan, if you don't mind, we were in an important discussion!" Ginny glared at the late arrival from her perch by the fireplace.

Neville gave the angered Weasley an apologetic smile before taking the injured Gryffindor by the hand and towing her to one of the nearest couches.

In response to the pushing and budging Morgan frowned, her hair turning a deep mousy color – a sure fire sign of her discontent. "Important discussion? Ginny, as heroic as you might like to be, we all know you're not gunna kill Volde –"

Ernie Macmillan launched himself off his red colored couch and tackled Morgan roughly. "DON'T SAY HIS NAME!"

Morgan's hair turned vibrant red as she struggled against the heavier seventh year, "What's the deal Macmillan! I thought Hufflepuff's were supposed to be gentle, dammit!" The two students had collided onto the carpeted floor, their limbs twisted together as a result of Ernie's quick attack.

Hannah chuckled lightly before leaning off her chair to help detangle the two. "Sorry about that Morgan, but apparently there's been a taboo put on his name. Dunno if it applies to Hogwarts, but we're not taking any chances."

"Oh." The Metamorphmagus blushed slightly, her hair changing to a light pink color as her embarrassment took hold. "Right, sorry about that Macmillan."

Ernie scoffed, standing up to his full height and brushing off his robes indignantly.

"Can we _please_ get back to the more important matters at hand?" Ginny crossed her arms over her chest. "Neville's right. This is our chance."

"But we still haven't decided _who's_ gunna do it." Michael said, still calmly seated. "And before you start yappin' –" He pointed a small finger to Ginny, "– You're not gunna do it woman!"

If looks could kill, Michael would have been dead for over five minutes.

"Michael's right, Ginny, you can't do it." Neville rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, making sure to avoid the recent bump that Amycus Carrow, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, had inflicted upon him.

"I'll do it." Terry Boot, one of the younger students in Dumbledore's Army volunteered. The small Ravenclaw had been silent until then, choosing to brood over the recent turn of events rather than comment on them.

"Get off your knocker kid." Seamus said angrily. "You can't do it! Do you even know the killing spell?" The seventh year student rubbed a hand tiredly through his short cropped hair, ignoring the plentiful bruises that lined his cheeks. He gave Morgan a short lived grin when he found her observing his injuries. "We match!" His fake high-falsetto voice made the girl crack a crooked grin herself.

"But then who!?" Ginny snapped, frustrated.

Morgan dabbed the cloth against her head quickly, working to wipe off the dried blood coated there, "I'll do it." She said the words simply, her attention still focused on cleaning her swollen skin.

Seamus snorted loudly, "I don't think so. Come here," he patted to the available space on the couch he sat at. "I'll help you clean that up."

Morgan obliged, her hair – now its preferred auburn color – had been pulled up hastily to keep it from getting stuck to her wound.

"Seamus is right," Neville agreed, "You can't do it either."

Morgan frowned, wincing every now and then as her fellow Gryffindor worked on getting rid of the blood on her head, "For Chrissakes. People, someone needs to do it. And we need to stop thinking about how much we don't want to lose anyone in this room. What we need to think about is the logic. And the logic says that I should do it."

"How do you figure that?" Michael asked curiously.

Neville gave the pale witch a puzzled look as well. Ginny flushed an unpleasant red color as she realized that everyone had already disregarded her offer.

"Well," Morgan rolled her hazel eyes to the ceiling in thought, "I'm going in first –"

"What?!" Seamus smacked Morgan's head with the cloth forcefully in surprise. "How do ya know that?" He asked, ignoring the witch's feeble yelp.

"Alecto wanted to make sure I had the honor," The Metamorphmagus winced at the memory. "Wants me to call You-Know-Who a half-blood to his face," she gave a dry chuckle, "As if I'm that suicidal."

"And how the hell does that make us more inclined to ask you to kill him?" Neville asked wearily. "If Alecto tells him that you said he was a half-blood he'll already want to kill you."

Morgan waved away Neville's concern, "Don't worry. I'll deny it. But what I'm saying is that since I'm gunna be the first one to go in there I should try and kill him! That way he won't have a chance to forcefully recruit anyone else before he's dead. I dunno about you, but having the Dark Mark ingrained on my skin isn't exactly high on my to-do list."

Ginny, still standing by the fireplace, stared darkly into the flickering flames. "You do know the possible consequences. If you fail, You-Know-Who will personally torture and kill you himself. And if you don't fail, I'm sure his followers will do the job for him."

Morgan chortled, "Oh dear Ginny, your pessimism is really encouraging. Way more uplifting than the normal, 'Good luck, I know you'll do smashing' speeches one in my position would expect to hear."

"I'm not being pessimistic! I'm being realistic!" Ginny tossed back.

The truth of her statment smothered everyone in the room.

---

"Do you really think this is a good idea?" Ginny sighed through gritted teeth. The Room of Requirement was surprisingly empty, seeing as the rest of Dumbledore's Army had gone down to the kitchens to have lunch with Morgan.

When it was mentioned by Neville that her last hour of preparation would be better spent, well, _preparing_ for meeting the Dark Lord, the Metamorphmagus had just laughed cheerily, exclaiming that if Jesus got a last supper the least she could get was a last lunch.

Hannah Abbott was one of the few D.A. members that broke out in laughter at the comment. Apparently, Jesus was a Muggle thing.

"I think it's the best idea we've got." Neville admitted after a long moment of silence. Though he rarely let it show, taking over Harry's position as leader of the Hogwarts rebellion was having a tiring effect on him. He felt, most days, as if he was in over his head.

Ginny began pacing, "I don't trust her," she said defiantly. "She's out laughing and eating and acting jovially when she knows that in a mere hour she'll be in _his_ presence. She should be scared out of her mind."

"Perhaps she could take the assignment more…seriously." Neville amended with a sheepish smile. "But I trust her." And indeed he did. The young Metamorphmagus witch, though a year younger than him, had proven herself on countless occasions; though those occasions may not have been as heroic as to gain the attention of others.

He remembered, specifically, in his third year when Goyle had spotted him running down the halls trying to get to his Defense Against the Dark Arts class. The burly Slytherin had pushed him into the wall and tried to curse him when Morgan showed up. She had spotted him and Goyle scuffling from down the corridor and broke out in a dead sprint. He could still recall the dark red color of her hair as she completely disregarded her wand and tackled the opposing Slytherin muggle style.

Needless to say, her force had surprised Goyle, and they both went tumbling to the floor. Filch had caught the third and second year fighting, Morgan going as far as to poke the Slytherin's chest roughly with her wand repeatedly, and pulled them apart before any more damage could have been done. Of course, she got a detention, as did Goyle. But after that incident and the many others that followed it, Neville couldn't help but see the struggling witch in a positive light.

And then there was the whole thing about her family, how she didn't –

" – Neville, I just can't help but be worried." Ginny said loudly, interrupting his train of thought. "There are so many ways this can go wrong, and I mean, Harry never exactly trusted her, did he?"

"It's not that he didn't trust her, Ginny." Neville placated the witch. "It's just that she never really grew into her magic until last year. And even now she's not the best witch. Besides from standing by Harry two years ago, which she did, by the way, there was no way that she could have really helped Harry. I have faith in her."

The last cackling flames in the Room of Requirement were dying out then, and Ginny finally let out a defeated gasp of air. "Well, she's an okay Quidditch player. That has to stand for _something_."

Neville couldn't help but smile at how much like her brothers Ginny was. The redheaded witch only glanced over things before forming an opinion about them. To her, Morgan wasn't to be trusted because she had never done anything to especially help or hinder Harry. Ginny didn't see the inner workings that made up the other Gryffindor witch. And, unlike Neville, she didn't register Morgan's deteriorating state.

Neville had noticed that Morgan had, undoubtedly, a rather big mouth, and the tendency to enjoy pissing off Death Eaters. As a consequence, her punishments over the past months had become more and more severe. He noted that she was deprived of food, sometimes for days on end, attributing to her malnourished and unhealthy looking appearance. The bags under her eyes didn't ease his worries either.

In truth, she looked like a complete and total mess, like someone who was nearing their wits end – physically at least. Thinking of such things made him question the decision to allow her to try and kill Voldemort.

But, then he recalled the ever-present glint in the Metamorphmagus' eyes. It was a glint that was akin to something Neville was used to seeing in Harry Potter's gaze.

The thought eased his worries.

---

Morgan Caldwell stood in front of the Great Hall doors. Her shoulders were slumped carelessly and her thin hands fiddled nervously with her wand in the pocket of her robes.

Glancing around, the Gryffindor confirmed that the two Death Eaters were still silently standing on either side of her. They were the reason she stood alone.

The unknown cloaked figures had been guarding the Great Hall before she had arrived. Their wands had been methodically drawn and aimed idly at the floor as they stood waiting for her.

Had it not been for them, the rest of Dumbledore's Army would have followed Morgan down to the hall from the kitchens. And, when she went in to try and kill Voldemort, they would have waited outside, wands readied, so that when the Dark Lord was disposed of they could rush in to Morgan's aid before the Death Eaters could harm her.

But of course, that brilliant plan was moot point once she had discovered the masked men. The D.A. members hadn't been able to get within twenty feet of the hall before they were rather viciously shooed and cursed away.

And so, Morgan was left alone. To try and kill Voldemort. One of the most powerful Dark Wizards to ever walk the Earth. _Wonderful._

"It's twelve now. Go in." The taller of the two Death Eaters, the one on Morgan's left, barked the order in a low raspy voice. Ignoring the shivers that ran down her spine, the witch pushed her way into the hall.

Stepping in and looking around, Morgan found the hall to be extremely dark. The enchanted ceiling had been spelled so that instead of reflecting the clear day outside, it showed a starless night. Most of the tables had been removed, too. Only the staff table lay untouched on its raised platform, with the Headmaster Severus Snape lingering by its edge. He held a small roll of parchment in his hands, which he checked every few minutes or so. There was a dark figure seated at the table, whom she figured must be Voldemort, and two more Death Eaters standing next to him.

"Caldwell, Morgan. Sixth year student. Metamorphmagus witch. Blood-status: unknown. Gryffindor."

The way Snape said the information chilled Morgan to no end. It was like he was trying to sell her. And, in a way, she supposed that was true.

"Gryffindor?" A voice sneered. It was the black figure seated at the table.

"Green isn't really my best color. I look horrible in it." By this time, there was a small amount of space separating Morgan from the staff table. She straightened her shoulders and willed her hands to stop trembling.

"How dare you talk to the Dark Lord like that!?" One of the cloaked Death Eaters said in a rather wheezy, high voice. Morgan recognized the figure as Alecto Carrow. Alecto turned to Voldemort and hissed venomously, "Forget this one, my Lord. She insulted your name today! Called _you _a filthy half-blood."

"Dirty, dirty lies," Morgan defended herself, lightly. "I never said 'filthy'." Her hands started shaking faster than ever and she was unable to stop her hair from turning deep black with fear. She composed her face into a mocking expression, doing her best not to let her fear show. She had heard a rumor somewhere that Voldemort could smell terror. She didn't know if it was true or not, but she was gunna play it safe.

"Enough, Alecto." Voldemort snapped dangerously. He waved one hand and the short Death Eater was thrown backwards into the wall, though the interruption was otherwise ignored. The Dark Wizard considered Morgan with his small, red, slit-like eyes before saying, "Amycus."

The remaining Death Eater stepped away from the table, hopped down from the platform it sat upon, and stood in front of Morgan. A characteristic sneer was on his ugly face when he lowered his hood and pulled out his wand. "We will duel and you will be judged on your abilities." He informed her.

"If it isn't my favorite professor," Morgan chuckled cheerfully. "This is just like class! Except this time I actually get to kick your ass, you sorry son of a –"

Morgan's speech was cut short by Amycus tossing a dark spell at her. The student pulled out her own wand, yelling, _"Protego Horribilis"_ just in time to stop the volley of purple flames that had been aiming for her head.

Backing away from the Death Eater, Morgan started out on her own attack. _"Reducto! Stupefy! Bombarda!"_

Each attack was dispelled with a short wave of Amycus' wand easily. He jumped onto the offensive, then, continuing to shoot dark curses at a break-neck pace. Morgan was forced to physically dodge the spells. As she rolled and dived through the Great Hall – conjuring a simple shield to deflect the more dangerous hexes – an idea wormed its way into her head.

Along the walls of the hall, gargoyle statues jutted outwards. Their stone hands clutched metal pans that usually contained enchanted fire. At the present moment, however, the statues were looking a lot less like crafty tools used to light up the room and more like weapons.

Ducking away from a shot of gray light, Morgan pointed her wand at one of the statues and shouted a levitation charm. Acting quickly, she tossed the hovering statue straight into Amycus, catching him off guard and causing him to topple to the floor.

Well. It was now or never.

Spinning away from her former opponent, Morgan raised her wand, pointing it determinedly at Voldemort. _"Avada Kedavra!" _She forced all the hate she had ever harbored into the spell, and for a fleeting moment, the figure whom she was aiming at looked less and less like Voldemort and more like a tall, lightly bearded man with striking black eyes. The mental image caused her hatred to expand even further.

A flash of green light exploded from her wand as a result of her efforts and raced across the room. Morgan watched in bated anticipation as it arched over the staff table to its intended target and –

Smashed into the glass windows at the back of the hall.

_"Sectumsempra!"_

A recovered Amycus shot the curse straight at Morgan.

She let out an audible gasp as she felt large gashes tear themselves into her stomach and chest. The curse had hit her dead on, and it dug deeply into her skin. She fell soundlessly to her knees.

"MY LORD!" Through the haziness that wallowed before her vision, Morgan was able to recognize Alecto's voice.

"Get away from me Carrow." She heard Voldemort snarl.

She was on her back now, unable to keep herself upright. She could feel her chest convulsing as her body struggled to deliver blood to her heart, an act that was becoming surprisingly difficult as less and less blood became available to use.

Weakly, Morgan tried to reach for her fallen wand a few inches from her lax hand, only to see a black boot kick it away calmly. A new wand positioned itself directly in front of her eyes and her face furrowed in anticipation.

_"Crucio!" _

It was a burning, stabbing, freezing, stinging, bashing pain all at the same time. It racked her thin body with shudders that had her thrashing against the floor. It felt as if claws were digging into her insides, chopping them up quickly, without remorse. It pulled her apart.

She writhed on the floor in agony, hoarse screams weakly escaping her throat. It felt as if the pain had been there for hours – years even – as if she had never been without it, when in reality it could have only been there for seconds.

And then, it was gone.

"Foolish girl." The voice was high and cold.

_'Why, if it isn't old Voldy.'_

"Did you really think you could kill me?"

Morgan honestly thought the question was rhetorical, so she remained motionless on the floor at Voldemort's feet.

"DID YOU!?"

Okay, so maybe it wasn't _quite_ so rhetorical.

"Worth…a s-shot," Her voice was croaky, but she didn't expect anything else. Getting tortured really did have a rather detrimental affect on ones vocalization skills.

"Let me finish her off, my Lord."

Morgan refrained from rolling her eyes. Of course Alecto was just itching to murder her. _Well, she should just get with her brother and start a club. They would certainly have enough members._

"No." Voldemort said simply.

Morgan cracked open an eye to see the Dark Wizard twirling his wand around in his thin and unnaturally long hands. Her own arms were busy, wrapped around her chest and torso, trying to stop the flow of blood.

He pointed his wand at her again, "You remind me of someone I knew a long time ago." His red eyes glared daringly into hers. "They too had the potential to be useful. But they were more trouble than they were worth, so I had to kill them. Buried them with the other filth I had disposed of back then."

"L-l-l-lovely." God, she wished he would just get to the point. Consciousness was getting rather hard to hold onto.

"The great Lord Voldemort values bravery." The Dark Lord continued. "You will make a good Death Eater, so long as you learn your place." He reached down and roughly grabbed her forearm. With a quick wave of his wand, the robes that covered her left arm fell away, leaving her pale skin exposed. He stabbed her skin with the edge of his wand and muttered a quick incantation.

Black, ink-like tendrils floated out of his wand, floating ominously in the air before becoming erect and stabbing downwards into her skin. The ink traveled deep under her pale arm, connecting and building upon themselves before they roughly began to take shape. A dark, icy cold feeling was left in the spells wake, and when it was finally done Morgan was left dumbstruck.

The Dark Mark glared at her from her arm.

"Severus, take care of her before she bleeds to death."

Moments later, a hooked-nosed face was kneeling besides her, _"Vulnera Sanatur_._" _

Morgan blinked rapidly, feeling her blood being pulled back into her body. It was a curious feeling, like having someone blow cold air onto an open wound. In reality, it tickled, and Morgan had to stop a weak giggle from escaping her throat.

The Headmaster of Hogwarts glared down at his student, healing her as efficiently as he could. Her cheeks were sunken in and her hair had turned to a dull gray color. Her eyes seemed colorless, an after-affect of losing so much blood, he figured. Though he couldn't really be sure, he had never studied Metamorphmagus witches and wizards.

Morgan glanced down at her arm, "D-d-dammit." Still on her back, the Gryffindor felt all strength leave her body. "I am…so…_screwed_."

And then, she passed out.


	3. Chapter Two

**A/N:** Sorry this one is a bit shorter than the last one. It just seemed like a good spot to cut it off. I promise next chapter is where we meet Tom Riddle and where the plot picks up its pace.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, if I did Sirius would have survived and killed Bellatrix himself...With a spoon.

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**Chapter Two: Plans**

A bright light seemed to be weighing down on her eyelids. And, when Morgan thought about it, it really annoyed her.

"Turn off...lights!" The sentence was really awkward to get out of her throat, it was marred by drowsiness.

"No, no, I think it's about time you woke up, dear. You've been out for two days, which is a bit longer than I think you needed."

Morgan recognized the voice immediately, "B-but Madame P, I'm _tired_."

"Stop being lazy."

Lazy? Morgan forced the scowl off her face. She couldn't remember the last time she had gotten a good night's sleep. Nor the last time she ate a desirable meal. She was certainly not being lazy. "You are a cruel, cruel, woman Pomfrey."

Opening her eyes, Morgan found the Mediwitch standing over her with a vial of green, murky, liquid. She wrinkled her nose. "Very cruel indeed." But nonetheless, she took the vial and downed its contents in one gulp.

"Good. Now the Headmaster wishes to see you. I wouldn't dawdle if I were you."

"Why is it, that whenever someone else _besides_ me gets thrown in the Hospital Wing you loathe letting them leave, even when they beg to get back to classes. But, with me, you kick me out as soon as I become conscious. It hardly seems fair."

Madame Pomfrey rolled her eyes, "If I didn't kick you out as soon as you were healed, you would never leave."

"Touché," Morgan replied grumpily. She pushed herself up into a sitting position and grabbed the mirror by the bedside table. Looking into it she saw that she was still very pale and gaunt, but that some of the bags under her eyes had decreased. Her hair was a neutral brown tone and her eyes were dark. Pursing her lips together, she imagined herself with purple hair and hazel eyes. Immediately, her hair and irises changed accordingly, and she gave a small mutter of approval.

She looked towards the bottom of the bed and found that her school robes had already been laid out for her. Standing up, Morgan began peeling off the soot and blood covered robes she had passed out wearing in favor of the cleaner ones. She only paused to examine the three large scars on her unhealthy and disgusting looking torso. One, the thickest of the three, went across her stomach in a horizontal fashion. The second stretched from across her breasts and down to her hip bone. The final struck her from her collar bone to her shoulder.

Morgan had a good mind to ask Madame Pomfrey why she hadn't healed the scars, but stopped when, after she had dressed, she saw the numerous patients filling up the beds of the wing. It seemed that students of all houses and years were crowded up in the large room, sporting bruises, cuts, and the likes. It was sickening.

Unconsciously rubbing her left forearm, Morgan stalked out of the wing and towards the Headmaster's office.

---

"It's gotten worse," Seamus said unhappily. He was sitting in the Room of Requirement on a small bed. He and the rest of the D.A. members had been forced to sleep there when the Carrow twins had been seen prowling outside common room entrances the night before.

"I agree," Lavender Brown grumbled. "They've begun torturing students for no reason! We can't keep fighting them while in their classes. We'd all be dead in a manner of days."

Neville warily nodded his head in agreement, recognizing how true the statement was. "Okay then, we stay and sleep here. We don't go to anymore classes."

"But what about dorms and our things and bathrooms?" Hannah asked.

"We can just think them up," Lavender answered.

"That's rather specific though, won't it be hard?" Ginny wondered aloud, rubbing her hands together anxiously.

"It doesn't matter how hard it is, it has to be done," Michael said, stretching out his muscles after having just woken up.

"So it's settled then. Has anyone heard any news about Morgan?" Neville glanced about the room nervously. It was silent for a long time before Seamus opted to speak up. His gaze was locked on the floor and his words were coated with unease.

"Well, I was waiting around the Great Hall for her to come out. But when she did, she was unconscious and covered in blood. Snape was levitating her out to the Hospital Wing."

"Not to mention, she had the _Dark Mark_ on her forearm." Ernie spat out, disgusted. "She's out of Dumbledore's Army now. She can't ever know what we're doing or even talk to us."

Neville winced, "I don't know if we have to go to that extreme. If you'll recall, after Morgan, You-Know-Who just left. He didn't stick around with his Death Eaters to try and recruit anyone else."

"That doesn't change the fact that she's one of _them_. I imagine that Alecto and Amycus will be right nice to her now that she's apart of their cult."

"She probably didn't join willingly, Ernie," Ginny said, giving a supporting smile to Neville.

"But still, she's a Death Eater." Hannah said sulkily.

"Then maybe she can become a spy for us." Terry offered, his brow puckered down in thought. "It could work."

"You-Know-Who is skilled at breaking into people's minds." Neville sank down into an armchair and put his face into his hands. "Morgan cannot do Occulmency. If we were to tell her anything than he could easily find out."

"So then it stands, no more contact with the Death Eater." Ernie was still rather vicious. "All in favor?"

Slowly, all the hands in the Room of Requirement went up; Neville, Ginny, and Seamus being the last people to agree.

"She's an enemy now."

---

"Potter sent another message." Snape snapped, his hands clenched around a thin slip of parchment. "'Here's what he's happy about'" the Headmaster mimicked in a high and unattractive voice. "He's an idiot, Dumbledore."

Dumbledore, still sitting in his portrait, gave an annoyed sigh. "I would prefer it if you did _not_ insult Harry in front of me, Severus." The painted wizard tugged at his bear thoughtfully. "Let me see the picture he drew under the words."

Snape obliged and brought the piece of parchment to Dumbledore's eyes. It was a messily drawn picture of an amulet on a necklace. The amulet was square in its shape, and from what Snape could tell from Harry's drawing, four different jewels occupied the four corners of the square.

"I thought this is what he would be happy about." Dumbledore muttered, squinting at the poor picture.

"What? What is it?"

Dumbledore was about to respond when a knock at the Headmaster's door stopped him. "I will tell you later." He vowed.

Snape took the hint and scowled irritably. "Come in."

Morgan Caldwell wandered into the office. Her skin was still sickly pale and she was still disgustingly skinny, Snape thought. She looked around the room through narrowed and suspicious eyes, occasionally rubbing her left forearm roughly.

"Hey Headmaster, you're looking dashing as always, how may I help you?"

Snape scowled at the obvious and blatant disrespect in the youth's tone. "Caldwell. How are you doing?"

"Can't really complain," Morgan answered. "Not after the epitome of all evil carved a pretty picture into my skin. After that happens to you, a bad skin day just doesn't seem so terrible anymore."

Dumbledore's picture peered at Morgan with interest. The blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles twinkled.

"Let me see the mark." Snape commanded, coming from around his desk and standing before the girl. She, in response, rolled up her sleeve and thrust her left arm into the Headmaster's hands.

The skin on her arm was an angry red, and the Dark Mark moved under Snape's close inspection.

"Creepy how it does that, right? I'll need to wear sweaters in the summer to hide it."

Snape didn't answer, but instead tapped her arm lightly. Almost immediately her skin paled to its original bland color and Morgan found that it no longer burned. She let out a small whistle of appreciation, "Woah, neat trick."

Snape stepped back and leaned against his desk. "Let me make one thing clear, Caldwell, you are a Death Eater now." Despite all her bravado, Snape noticed her wince at the term. "And you should consider yourself lucky to even be alive. Normally, the Dark Lord would have tortured and raped your mind until you were begging for death. And only then would you have been killed."

"The pretty little picture doesn't look so bad anymore."

Snape sneered, "You better adjust that attitude. Or else you won't last a day. Your snappy little comments and blatant sarcasm and disrespect need to stop."

Morgan looked up to Dumbledore's portrait and sighed, "I didn't want this." She said, almost as if reassuring the deceased wizard that she was still on his side.

"Were you even listening to me, Caldwell?"

"Yes, yes I was. And let me make one thing clear to _you_ Headmaster. Just because I have a rather unattractive tattoo on my left arm doesn't change anything. I'll still fight against you and Voldemort until I _am_ dead. And none of your intimidation or scaring is going to stop me from doing so." She stuck out her chin defiantly and crossed her arms, ignoring the burning on her arm that started again at the sound of the Dark Lord's name.

"Foolish, foolish girl! Have you lost all sense?"

"I never had any to begin with, or so I've been told." She looked around the room. "So I take it that there's no taboo on Voldemort's name in Hogwarts?"

"No," Snape answered thickly. His tone distorted by evident annoyance and dislike.

"Okay." The girl folded her hands together and took a seat in one of the chairs in front of the Headmaster's desk. "So is there anything else you wanted to tell me, besides how stupid I am?"

"Yes. Tomorrow you are to come to my office at midnight when you will be escorted to the Malfoy's house."

Morgan wrinkled her nose. "Why in the world would I want to go there? Draco will be there. And I never liked that slimy bastard."

Snape went to go and sit behind his desk. "It's not whether or not you _want_ to go there. You have no choice. It is the Dark Lord's wish that you go there to learn from other Death Eaters."

"So I'm getting a Death Eater mentor? Like I'll have to follow one of you guys around all day like a lost puppy?"

Snape smiled darkly, enjoying her discomfort, "In a manner of speaking, yes." He watched as her hair turned from its bright purple color to a dull brown one.

"So I won't be able to come back to school anymore?"

"No. How many times do I have to stress that fact that you belong to the Dark Lord now? From now on you only live to do his bidding." Snape leaned back in his chair and glared at her.

Morgan paused for a moment, mulling the facts over in her mind. "Well…" she began, "Well, this sucks." She folded her arms across her chest again. "But I suppose it's the perfect chance for me to help Harry. I'm gunna sabotage all your missions and give away all your secrets." She spat the words out, trying to prove to herself that she was still on the right side. "I mean it! The ugly tattoo doesn't mean anything!"

Disgust was welling deep within Snape's stomach. "You really are stupid!" He snapped dangerously. "What makes you think that you'll learn any secrets that could possibly help Potter? And sabotaging missions? You'll be tortured mercilessly if you do. You'll be useless to both Potter and the Dark Lord. And then you'll die."

The Gryffindor looked undaunted, "Yeah, I might have to work on the sneaky thing when it comes to stealing secrets. I suppose I should pretend to play nice to make it high in the ranks and _then_ steal information. You know, kinda like what you did until you became a traitor…again."

Black fury glared at Morgan from Snape's eyes. "Get. Out. Now."

The witch could feel the hatred radiating from her Headmaster and stood up. "Okay, see ya later Headmaster! It was nice speaking to you again, have a pleasant day!"

As soon as Morgan left Snape grabbed the nearest thing he could find — a glass ball who's purpose he did not know — and threw it against the wall.

"Ignorant, ungrateful, little brat!" He fumed almost unintelligibly. "She's worse than Potter! And just as stupid! The mere _nerve_ of her! Calling _me_ a traitor! I'm the reason half the students in this school aren't dead!"

"Calm down Severus. So that was the only student recruited yesterday? Morgan Caldwell… I remember her. Though I am surprised Voldemort only took one student. Do you know why?"

Snape sighed, "Yes. She tried to kill him during her testing duel with Amycus Carrow. Shot the killing curse at him, but missed. After that happened, the Dark Lord marked her and then left. Apparently it was more dangerous than he originally thought. He didn't know how disobedient certain students are." A frown worked its way onto his face when he thought about the punishment he and the Carrows were almost certain to get due to their lack of control on the teeangers.

"I see." Dumbledore folded his fingers together and laid his head thoughtfully on top of them. "She is an odd girl, if I remember correctly. No parents. Lives in a catholic orphanage. Metamorphmagus. I can see why Voldemort marked her. Her abilities can come in handy."

Snape made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

"She just may be the person we need Severus."

The Headmaster looked up at the portrait in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"Fetch me the gold-bound book from that shelf there," Dumbledore said. "And I shall explain my plan."


	4. Chapter Three

**A/N: **Okay, so originally I wrote this chapter and the next one as one giant chapter, but seeing as that would have made chapter three over 15 pages long, I decided to cut it in half. So you guys get two chapters in one day! Yay. Haha. Well, please review guys, it would mean a lot to me. I would love some postive feedback or some suggestions.

Disclaimer: I still don't own Harry Potter, just like the thousands of other people on this site(:

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**Chapter Three: Something Bad**

Morgan stalked down the halls sluggishly, her left forearm burning more than ever. The night before, after leaving Snape's office, she had tried to go to the Room of Requirement. But for some reason, the door wouldn't reveal itself to her. She was forced to spend the night in the Gryffindor common room, only to find that her friends were not there.

Turning around a corner on her way to Defense Against the Dark Arts, Morgan ran straight into someone. Falling to the floor, she looked at the poor kid that had managed to get in her way.

"Ah, Ernie, sorry about that." She pushed herself to her feet quickly before offering the fallen seventh year a hand.

"Don't touch me Death Eater."

The words were harsh. They cut into her heart more than anything else in the past couple of days. "Hey," she backed away from the taller blond slowly, holding her hands up in a sign of surrender. "Relax. I was only trying to help."

"Well I don't need a Death Eater's help! Why don't you go running to You-Know-Who and go help _him_." By this time the fuming Hufflepuff had brusquely gotten to his feet.

He took a threatening step forward then, pulling his wand out and thrusting it in her face. Morgan didn't pull out her own wand, merely backed away from the confrontation. "I don't even know why you're here anymore," he spat. "Traitor!"

Morgan raised an eyebrow, "You seem to be under the impression that I voluntarily decided to become a Death Eater. That I just waltzed into the Great Hall and spent the last few days having a sleepover with Voldemort, during which we gapped about boys and painted each others toenails."

"Who knows, that could be exactly what happened."

Morgan stared, "I can see why you're not in Ravenclaw."

Ernie took another step forward, "Are you insulting my intelligence?"

"I'm not exactly sure there's intelligence to insult, really."

Suddenly, Morgan found herself pushed against the stone corridor, a wand digging into the tender flesh of her neck. She knew that Ernie had never really been fond of her, but she didn't think he would take the teasing banter so seriously.

"I should curse you straight to hell." He snarled angrily. "I'd be doing Harry a favor."

Morgan looked around at the empty halls unappreciatively: now would have been a perfect time for Flitwick to meander her way. "Look Macmillan, just take me to Neville so that I can explain to him and the rest of the D.A. members what really happened."

Ernie shook his head, "Nope, you see, it's already been decided that we're not going to have contact with you anymore."

It took a few moments for the words to process.

Morgan blinked slowly, "Then what do you call this." She gestured between Ernie and herself.

"This is me informing you of the group decision." Ernie took a step away from her now and lowered his wand. "You're out of Dumbledore's Army. No one wants you here anymore. You might as well go and live with the Malfoys."

If she had been in a better mood, Morgan might've laughed at the fact that she was being forced to go there later in the day.

Ernie backed further away from her before turning on his heel. "See you on the battlefield, Death Eater."

"It was nice speaking with you too, Macmillan."

As soon as the abrasive Hufflepuff had disappeared Morgan slowly kneaded her hands into her temple. She was the enemy now. Neville, Hannah, Seamus — they didn't want anything to do with her anymore.

The people she had come to love, the home she had come to fit into, it had all been taken from her. She had no one. She belonged nowhere.

For the first time since receiving her letter to Hogwarts, Morgan felt inexplicably lost.

---

"It's _your_ fault! You little bitch!"

The sound of a loud slap echoed around the empty classroom.

Morgan stood stiffly, forcing her head not to move with the force of backhand she had received from Alecto.

"Because you tried to kill the Dark Lord he believes that Amycus and I have no control over the students! He's _furious_ with us! BECAUSE OF YOU!"

Morgan almost rolled her eyes. How she had gotten into this situation baffled her. After her run-in with Macmillan, she had blustered into Defense Against the Dark Arts late, only to find that it was Alecto teaching the class this time.

The Death Eater had spent fifty minutes getting the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor students to Crucio each other as a form of 'collective group punishments'. No one in the class had sat anywhere near Morgan, choosing to glare and whisper nasty comments when they thought Alecto wasn't looking. Not that their professor would have minded.

There was also that fact that most of the students asked if they could Crucio _her_ instead of their selected partners. Thank god Alecto refused, saying that having them torture their friends would be more effective.

And then, of course, Alecto had asked her to stay after class. And here she was, getting backhanded.

Morgan knew she wasn't that good of a witch. Only under the direst of circumstances was she usually able to muscle up acceptable spells. Whenever else she was presented with potentially harmful situations she resorted to attacking the Muggle way, something she had learned during her summers at the orphanage.

But, Morgan knew that if she tackled Alecto to the ground and made her eat the stone floor, there was sure to be some extremely unpleasant repercussions. So, instead, she merely mocked the professor.

"What gave you the impression that you have control any over anyone in this school? Are you really that thick, or have you not noticed the group of students practicing anti-Voldemort activities in the middle of the night?"

For the second time that day, Morgan found herself with a wooden wand stabbing into the tender flesh of her neck.

"What are you talking about?" Alecto hissed, putting her ugly face next to Morgan's. "Remember whose side you're on now, Caldwell, and tell me everything you know about this supposed 'rebel' group of students. Perhaps, if you do so, I'll let you go."

Morgan mulled over the possible choices she had. She could either tell Alecto everything she knew about Dumbledore's Army, — they hated her now anyways — tell her nothing and get punished severely, or, the most attractive of the three options, she could lie.

"It's a group of twenty-five students that meet from one in the morning until five in the morning deep in the Forbidden Forest. They change where they meet everyday, so you'll have to search around a lot until you might come across them. When they meet, they plan ways to incapacitate you and your brother. Not to mention ways to kill Voldemort."

Alecto eyed her suspiciously, her brown eyes searching Morgan's. "So, if we go out in the Forbidden Forest between those times, we'll find them?"

Morgan shifted away from the wand pointed at her neck. "Absolutely. Remember to search good though."

"Wait a minute," Alecto grabbed Morgan's collar roughly and pushed her back against the wall. "How do they get out of the castle without us knowing?"

"Secret passageways, dumbass, how thick could you possibly be?"

All the suspicion vanished from the other Death Eaters gaze as she backed away from Morgan. "And here I thought you had actually learned some respect."

"Give me a reason to respect you and I might." Morgan answered, forcing her voice to sound unbearably cheerful.

"Despicable little girl. No friends because you're a Death Eater and no purpose as one, so you turn your friends in, hoping to get some credit with the Dark Lord. Pathetic."

"That's exactly why I turned them in." Morgan lied effortlessly, another smile on her face. "We done here? I have some more evil deeds to do before Potions."

Alecto sneered, "I don't think so, _Cruc—_ _" _

"Caldwell, come with me."

Alecto froze, almost finished completing her Unforgivable curse when Snape walked in. His black eyes were not filled with hatred like the last time Morgan had spoken with him; instead they had cooled over with polite dislike.

Morgan pushed herself away from the stone wall, "Better luck next time, Alecto." Walking past the shorter Death Eater, Morgan gave her a companionably clap to the shoulder, causing Alecto to clench her fists in hatred.

The Gryffindor witch paused before Snape, "After you, Headmaster," she bowed extravagantly.

Snape rolled his eyes and smacked the back of her head, forcing her out the door ahead of him.

---

Once inside Snape's office, Morgan couldn't help but noticing how impersonal it was. When Dumbledore had been Headmaster the walls and shelves were lined with candies and neat little trinkets. She could only remember being sent to his office once, when she had tried a new charms spell and accidentally set the floor on fire. She never did really understand how she set solid stone on fire, but it didn't matter anymore. Now the shelves around the office stood bare.

"Is this some pre-Death Eater initiation?" She asked with a cocky grin, seating herself in front of Snape's desk again.

The Headmaster frowned deeply, "For once in your life, Caldwell, shut up and listen."

Morgan blinked dumbly for a moment, "That's not very nice Head—"

"Silence," The word was enunciated clearly and filled with unimaginable amounts of displeasure.

"Well, since you asked so nicely, okay." Morgan crossed her arms sulkily and leaned back in her seat. She motioned with her hands for Snape to continue.

"Since the moment the Dark Lord tried to kill Harry Potter I've been working with and carrying out Dumbledore's orders." Snape stood in front of his desk, his hands lying on top of a thick leather-bound book.

"If you were such great mates then why the hell did you kill him?" The words were out of her mouth before she could reel them in.

"Only you, Caldwell, would find it so difficult to follow one simple request. I ask for silence, and then ten seconds later you are opening your mouth and subjecting me to the mindless thoughts you choose to make known. It's rather tedious."

Morgan's cheeks turned light pink and the hair on her head changed to a light peach color. "That was not a mindless thought!" She protested. "It was a good question!"

"SILENCE," Snape straightened his shoulders threateningly. "You would be mindful to watch your tongue before I cut it out!"

Morgan said nothing in return, merely pursed her lips angrily.

"As I was about to explain before I was so rudely interrupted—Dumbledore asked me to kill him. He knew that at the beginning of last year Draco Malfoy was assigned by the Dark Lord to murder him. Dumbledore also knew that if he was not dead by the end of the year, Draco would have been killed in his place."

"Oh what a shame," Morgan muttered under her breath lowly.

Snape ignored the second interruption. "Dumbledore was also aware that I had made the Unbreakable Vow to Draco's mother in order to keep up my Death Eater image. I swore on punishment of death that I would help Draco in his task and complete the task for him if he was unable to do so. Also—"

"It definitely makes more sense for Dumbledore to die instead of you _two_." Morgan snapped, her flace flushing in anger and hatred. "Because we all know how much you and Draco have benefited Harry in the fight against Voldemort. You're just making up excuses as to why you killed Dumbledore. You want to make it look like you did the right thing. You're _pathetic_. Absolutely bloody pathe—"

Morgan heard the slap before she actually felt it. Snape obviously had much more strength than Alecto, because her whole body was tossed to the floor upon its impact.

Snape stood towering over her, his whole form quivering in silent rage. "DON'T SPEAK OF WHAT YOU KNOW NOTHING OF!"

Morgan didn't answer. Instead she sat still on the ground, her eyes wide and glossed over with fear. They blinked, unseeing, as her hands clenched without any conscious effort.

Suddenly, she wasn't in the Headmasters office anymore.

_She was in the small orphanage, sitting in the church looking for Father Miller. She had walked into his private study, only to see him with a poorly covered woman smothering him. She made a squeak of surprise. The Father pushed the woman off and leaned over her. His whole hand streaked across her face, sending her sprawling to the floor in tears. He grabbed her shirt and tossed her out, slamming the door behind him. Her cheek felt oddly numb and blood seeped out from her cracked lip. She could see Father Miller's angry black orbs and graying beard even when she closed her eyes. _

"CALDWELL."

Morgan's eyes suddenly refocused and she let out a shuddering breath, one she didn't know she was holding. The Headmaster was still leaning over her, his black eyes so much like the ones she feared. He had stopped shaking in anger; instead a more calculating look appeared on his face.

"Severus, I won't stand for you hurting my students."

The calm and soothing tone of Dumbledore floated into Morgan's ears and she forced herself to stand up. Blood was pooling out of the bottom of her lip and she wiped it away wearily, her brown eyes cold.

Snape turned to Dumbledore's portrait, "I apologize, I lost control of myself for a moment." He turned back to the standing Death Eater and drew out his wand. A bruise had already begun to form on her pale skin.

Morgan stepped away quickly though. "D-don't. It's fine. Just, continue with what you were saying."

Snape studied her expression for a moment before nodding mutely. "Alright." He gestured to the chair she had previously occupied.

Morgan slowly settled herself back into it and Snape began talking again. Though, this time, her eyes weren't on him. They were locked on the desk, her head hung low. It bothered him.

"Dumbledore was already dying before the year began." He said simply. Morgan nodded her head once, to show that she was listening.

"It is true." Dumbledore spoke from his portrait.

Once again, Morgan didn't say anything.

Snape scowled and sat back in his desk, his hands once again going to the leather-bound book lying there. "Caldwell, do you know why Voldemort is still alive today? Why no one can seemingly kill him?"

Morgan sighed unhappily, her mind still mulling over past events in the orphanage. "No." She said simply. She lowered her eyes to her hands now.

Dumbledore looked at her concernedly. The Headmaster was glaring again. "Morgan," he said sternly. "I slapped you. I am…_sorry_." The words were hard to force out of his mouth, but the lack of response from the usually unshakeable and rowdy Gryffindor unsettled him. "But snap out of it. We have no time for petty childishness now."

Anger began building up in the pit of Morgan's stomach. Childishness? She had thought she had escaped those abusive memories. But of course Snape had to bring them back to her. She couldn't help it. His eyes were so much like the ones that had terrorized her when she was smaller. Not to mention what had transpired between her and the Headmaster was awfully reminiscent of the situation she had been in all those years ago.

"Sorry." She ground out, defiantly lifting her eyes back to Snape's, "I just thought that abusing students was Carrow's responsibility."

Snape didn't retaliate, only narrowed his eyes in annoyance and continued on. "The reason why it is so hard to kill him is because Voldemort's soul is split into seven pieces. Each piece of his soul is hidden inside an object called a Horcrux."

"Horcrux." Morgan stated simply. She wrinkled her nose, "Sounds like a brand of cereal gone wrong."

Snape relaxed slightly in his chair now that his student's attitude had been restored to its normal light-heartedness. "The only way to kill Voldemort is to destroy all the Horcruxes."

"Is that what Harry's been doing then? Looking around and trying to destroy them?"

"Yes, last year Dumbledore found one and tried to destroy it too. It was guarded by dark and powerful magic, magic that cursed him to a slow death."

"So you killed him because he was already dying. And if you hadn't then you, Draco, and Dumbledore would have died anyway?" Morgan locked her fingers together thoughtfully, her eyes wandering over to the single clock in the room. It was later than she thought, almost time for dinner.

"…Yes." Snape drawled listlessly, his eyes flickering over to Dumbledore's portrait.

"Right. And you're telling me this…why? Last time I checked Voldemort was quite the master at looking in on people's thoughts, creepy but true nonetheless. So that means, the next time I see his _adorable_ face, he'll just pick all the information you told me right out of my unsuspecting brain."

"Because we need you to do something for us, Morgan," Dumbledore hadn't spoken for awhile and Morgan looked up in surprise. His words were innocent and light, but the undertone in his voice let her know that something was definitely up.

"Why do I get the feeling that something really bad is going to happen?"


	5. Chapter Four

**A/N: **We finally get to meet Tom Riddle in this one. Tell me what you all think! This was originally combined with Chapter Three, but I found that if I didn't seperate the two it would have been too long. Please review and give me some suggestions. I'm always open to hearing other people's thoughts, whether they be good or bad.

Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, Lupin and Tonks would not have died, dammit!

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**Chapter Four: The End of the World As We Know It**

No one said anything inside the Headmaster's office. Dumbledore was calmly humming to himself, happily settled into his own painted chair while Morgan was drumming her fingers against her leg anxiously, her wide hazel orbs zeroed in on her old Potions professor.

Snape's hands flipped through the pages of the book on his desk, finding a specific page before motioning for Morgan to have a look.

Leaning over the pages, Morgan found herself staring at a rather beautiful necklace. The amulet resting on the solid gold chain was square in shape. It too was made of gold. The square was divided into four sections, a different colored gem settled into each one. A maroon gem occupied the top right corner of the pendant, a yellow gem occupied the top left, a jade gem occupied the bottom right, and a blue gem occupied the bottom left. It was beautifully simple yet intricately complicated. Small designs carved into the gold seemed to glitter straight off the page. Morgan recognized the carvings as runes.

"Uhm…" Morgan looked between the drawing of the necklace and Snape. She wasn't exactly sure why they had shown her the picture. "What a pretty necklace…?"

"We've recently received a note from Harry. He told us that even though Voldemort knows that he is destroying the Horcruxes he is happy because of this trinket." Dumbledore began pacing in his portrait again. "This little necklace is a curious thing," he began heavily "It was made with the combine effort of Hogwarts' four founders. It has never been found and is not very well known. Most doubt its existence."

"So Voldemort's happy because he has the necklace…?" Morgan would readily admit that she was just fishing for a line in the conversation. She honestly couldn't see the connection between the necklace and Voldemort.

"Or he knows where it is." Dumbledore said. "I am under the impression that Voldemort found this necklace while he himself was at Hogwarts, and that he hid it during his sixth year."

"Why do you say that?" Morgan wondered aloud.

"Because, in 1943 or 44, while I was still a Transfiguration professor, all textual references to the necklace in the school suddenly went missing, I believe Voldemort was behind this."

"But why would the necklace make Voldemort happy?" Morgan asked, exasperated.

"Who knows," Snape intervened. "We can't say for sure, for the amulet's purpose has never been known. Perhaps it is an unknown Horcrux, or some kind of other magical device that Voldemort believes will give him the upper hand against Potter."

"So what do I have to do with any of this?" Morgan took the book and began running her hands through its pages. At the beginning of it a dedication was written in ink:

"_My dear Headmaster, merely seeking out the knowledge you need has never done anyone any good. We must search for it diligently, and most times we may find the answers to our problems between the pages of a good book. I myself am specifically fond of page 327."_

"Whoever wrote that must've been quite the tosspot." Morgan grinned at the Headmaster and tried to show him the dedication, only to have him slam the book shut irritably.

"Caldwell, we need someone to find the necklace. It could very well be the turning point in the war!"

"Okay, Headmaster, I'll look for it, jeesh, don't get your boxers in a bunch." Morgan leaned back in her chair again.

"You won't find it now," Dumbledore said gently. "Not in this time."

Morgan started. "This…time? Dumbledore, please don't tell me you're as crazy as everyone says." The young witch turned her wide eyes on him, pleading.

"I believe, if you were to go to the year of 1943, when Voldemort was known was Tom Marvolo Riddle, you would be able to find it."

"You _are_ just as crazy as everyone says," Morgan groaned unhappily. "Why can't you get one of the Golden Trio to do it?" At this point she was almost positive she saw Snape smirk, "Or Ginny, or Seamus, or Neville! They're all better witches and wizards then me!"

Dumbledore frowned sadly, "Dear Morgan, would you so soon take Ginny away from her brothers and Seamus away from his family? Or Neville away from the school?"

"Oh. I see how it is." Morgan's tone turned icy. "Just because I have no family and am now the resident Death Eater I suddenly become expendable."

"That's not what I said," Dumbledore corrected her softly.

"No, but it's what you meant."

"I just believe you would be the most qualified to complete the task," Dumbledore continued. "I do not think Ginny or Neville, or even Ron, Hermione, or Harry, would be able to go back in time and resist the temptation of changing the past."

"Yes." Snape agreed roughly. "Potter certainly wouldn't be able to hold in his temper and resist trying to kill the Dark Lord, neither would Neville."

"And you think that I could?" Morgan furrowed her eyebrows together. "And by the way, why _can't _I just go back and kill the bastard?"

"Who knows what would be changed if you did so." Dumbledore said sternly. "The after effects of doing such a thing would be astronomical! An even darker and more powerful wizard could take the place of Voldemort, or something equally terrible could happen."

"Okay. So I won't off mini-Voldemort and toss his body in the lake."

"So you will do it, this task?" Snape asked, glancing at the clock again.

Morgan frowned deeply. "Well, it's either that or going to the Malfoy's house." She shuddered at the mere thought. "So yeah, I guess I will."

Dumbledore grinned happily, "Thank you, Morgan."

The Gryffindor blushed deeply, "Yeah, yeah, no problem. I have a few questions though."

"I imagine you would," the portrait answered kindly.

"Okay, one: how the hell am I gunna get back in time?" She began ticking the questions off her thin fingers. "Two: I don't have any possessions suitable for the 40's. Three: what do I do when I find this little do-diddy necklace? Four: how in the world do I get back from the 40's?"

"Headmaster Snape has prepared a trunk full of suitable possessions with the help of professor McGonagall. When you find the Founders Necklace hide it in a secure location that you know will remain secret and then come back."

"Okay, so I take it I'll be going to Hogwarts as a student then? But that still doesn't explain how I'm getting there."

"I believe I can explain that, Caldwell." Snape stood up from his desk. He swept over to a small doorway nestled in the far corner of the office and entered, motioning for Morgan to do the same. When she walked in she saw a large bed, some drawers, and a bed stand. It seemed she was in Snape's private quarters.

Snape was walking over to the lone fireplace in the room; it was nestled into the opposite wall facing the bed. He ran his hands over the mantle of the fireplace and picked up a black silk bag.

"Inside this bag is the time-sand one would find inside a Time-Turner," he began sharply. "It was quite easy to steal from the Ministry, seeing as they have tons of it from the Time-Turners that Potter and his friends broke in their fifth year.

"Now, there is a very dark and illegal spell known to very few witches and wizards in existence. It is a spell that can be cast upon a Floo network fireplace. The spell, if cast correctly, enables any witch or wizard to travel to any fireplace in the past, as long as Time-Turner sand is used instead of Floo powder."

"So instead of shouting my destination into the fire like normal I shout my year and day and place?"

"Precisely." Snape said coolly. "You, when you are ready to leave, you will shout 'Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, September first, 1943.'"

"Seems simple enough," Morgan muttered uneasily. "But how do I get back?"

"You break into the Headmaster's office—don't give me that look Caldwell, I am sure you can do it—and you will cast the counter spell that will allow you to come back to your own time."

"So I'll need to bring some of that Time-Turner sand with me?" She gestured to the black bag in Snape's hand. He nodded mutely.

"And…" Morgan froze for a moment, struggling with the words, "If I can't make it back…I'll leave a sign, something I know you'll find in this time that shows you where the little necklace is, deal?"

Snape ushered her out the door and back into the main office, "Yes, alright."

"Well, when do I leave then?"

"I'm afraid my dear, now." Dumbledore's blue eyes studied her from his portrait. "Time has run out."

Snape nodded, "Yes. The feast is about to begin in ten minutes. The Mafoy's will be there to take you away straight afterwards, so there is no time."

Morgan gapped at the both of them before forcing her mouth close, "No need to me give time to get use to the idea, no need at all," she said bitterly.

Dumbledore smiled at her, "I know you'll do splendidly. Severus and I have written down all the information you will need to know, it's hidden in your trunk. Good luck. Oh, and please be very careful, and try not to get yourself killed." He gave her another wink before she was hustled back into Snape's private chambers.

He handed her a shrunken suitcase and looked her over before sighing in annoyance. "Those clothes will not do." He waved his wand at her and her normal school robes were transfigured into a knee length skirt, a tucked in white blouse, black stockings, and dark shoes. "That's better." And then, as if forgetting, he pointed his wand at her face and muttered a quick healing spell.

Morgan gave a wide grin, "And here I was thinking you were just gunna send me back in time unprepared!"

Snape gritted his teeth together, "Change your appearance." He commanded roughly, ignoring her other comment. "You need to become a completely different person when you get there, Caldwell, and that means changing everything about yourself to fit in perfectly."

Morgan frowned, "WHERE'S THE INDIVIDUALITY!" She cried over dramatically before focusing on changing her face. Her hair had gone from its sparkling auburn color to a dark, milky brown that went past her shoulders and curled slightly. She squinted then, concentrating on shifting her eyes into an almond shape and blue-gray color. Last but not least, she focused on her nose, making it smaller and giving it a more of a button shape. "There!" She cried with flourish, "Do I look different?"

A flat yes was the only response she got from her cold Headmaster. He thrust the black bag of Time-Turner sand into her hand and tapped his wand to the fireplace, causing it to light up the room. But instead of the fire turning green like she was used to, it was a milky gray color.

"Do you have your wand?" Snape asked.

Morgan nodded.

"Right. Well, off you go then." He waved impatiently at the fireplace and she grumpily complied.

Standing before the fire she thrust her hand into the black bag and brought out a handful of the time sand. She threw it into the blaze and stepped in. "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, September first, 1943!"

Everything spun around her and she tried to tuck her elbows in, gasping as the black bag with the time sand seemed to slip further and further from her grasp. She was so dizzy. An icy feeling was building in the pit of her stomach and spots flashed before her eyes. Nothing mattered anymore, not the time sand or the stupid Founders Necklace. It felt like she was being stretched to disgusting lengths, her bones cracking with the stress. It was a pain worse than dying; it was like nothing she ever felt before it was—

Over.

With a whoosh of air she was suddenly and rather ungracefully thrown to the floor, her knees smacking against stone. Her eyes were blurred with tears and her whole body was shaking. "…OUCH! GODDAMMIT! THAT HURT." Morgan rolled onto her back and scowled at the dark ceiling of wherever she was at. She didn't care. Damn Snape and Dumbledore!

Suddenly, she heard the sound of a door opening and the solid footsteps of someone walking into whatever room she was in.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" The voice was warm and silky smooth, yet it was like a double-edged blade. There was a sharp coldness lingering underneath it.

Morgan continued to stay on her back, staring up at the stone ceiling covered with…she blinked. Green lights. Well, that couldn't be good.

"Uh…admiring the view…?" Her voice was higher than normal. "Though it's not a very nice one… mind telling me where I'm at?"

More rapid footsteps.

"I asked who you were." The voice said pointedly and on edge, it was closer now. "You're not a student."

Morgan had the very suspicious feeling that, for the third time in the last twenty-four hours, a wand was being pointed at her very threateningly.

"Not a student yet," She said simply, still refusing to get up. "Now then, where are we in Hogwarts?"

"I refuse to speak with someone who has the indecency to try and participate in a conversation from the floor." The voice was thick with disproval. Now Morgan was sure there was a wand pointed at her.

She gave a loud sigh and struggled to sit up, pushing up on her elbows and glancing about the room. There were six four-poster beds lined up in front of her with thick green curtains and little drawers beside them. She had been lying down directly in front of the fireplace, which was directly across from the row of beds.

Pushing herself to her knees and then her feet, Morgan patted the pockets of her skirt, relieved when she found her trunk and wand safely tucked into them. Looking towards the door Morgan found a tall student leaning against the first bed.

He was lean, dressed in school robes. His pale skin stuck out brightly in the room and contrasted greatly with his dark eyes and neatly parted black hair. His thin hands were indeed holding a wand, and, because she was just lucky like that, the wand was indeed aimed at her.

"Who are you?" The boy, or boy-man, Morgan corrected mentally, asked her again. His voice losing its polite tone as his frustration began to take hold.

Morgan's heart skipped a beat. "Uhh," she couldn't think straight, because for all the damn great preparing that Snape and Dumbledore had gone through, they had forgotten to mention what the hell her name was supposed to be. Or how she was supposed to describe her presence.

She felt like a deer frozen in the head-lights, and the dark gaze burning into wasn't helping. "Er…right…"

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**A/N: **Sorry for the bit of a cliff-hanger. But don't worry, should be another update in a day or two. Please, don't hesitate to tell whether I took things too fast in this chapter. I would really appreciate some feedback!


	6. Chapter Five

**A/N: **Hey guys, back with another chapter. I've seen that a lot of people are reading this story, but that not a lot of reviews are coming in. I just wanted to say that reviews give me incentive to write more, and that they let me know people are interested in seeing more of the story. Lack of reviews shows me lack of interest and lack of interest only leads to the story getting scrapped. Anyways, depending on a few factors, I may not be updating for a few days. But I promise I will update once more before I go to Michigan on Friday. And who knows, if I actually get some more reviews, I may just update twice!

Disclaimer: No, I do not own Harry Potter, I barely own 50 cents.

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**Chapter Five: Lies, Lies, Lies  
**

Tom Riddle believed that he was, among many other great things, a sensible person, someone who was just not easily surprised. After all, ever since he had been told he was a wizard, shocking things were hard to come by.

_Well, _he thought darkly, casting a bland look to the girl trailing after him, _not anymore._

If the witch knew anything of the furtive glances and dark thoughts rolling around in his head, she hid it very well. At first, she seemed unbearably cheerful. But every now and then Tom would catch a tight frown tugging at the corners of her lips.

She might have been pretty once, Tom figured indifferently, but now she certainly wasn't. Her clothes highlighted her terribly thin form, giving him the impression that if he wanted to, she would be easy to overpower. The sickly paleness of her skin and dark circles under her eyes only attested to that fact.

She had said her name was Cameron Diaz, though made no effort to explain what she was doing on the floor of the Slytherin sixth year dorms. She had only insisted that she needed to see the Headmaster, and nothing Tom said swayed her determination.

"Do you mind if I use the loo?"

Tom froze, aware that Cameron had stopped walking a few paces behind him. She looked pointedly between the school bathroom and him. He gritted his teeth together, but gave into the witch's request with a slight nod of his head a polite 'certainly'.

He really didn't know anything about her. She could be a very influential person for all he knew, and perhaps being decent to her would pay off in the long run.

---

Morgan tried _very_ hard not to bolt into the girl's bathroom, she really did. But the inexcusable urge to get away from her guide as fast as she could was impossible to ignore.

She figured it was her natural flight instincts kicking in. Seeing one's nemesis _was _known to have that effect on people.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit." She looked around the empty bathroom gratefully, barely taking time to glance over her appearance in the mirror. There were more important things at hand. Like the fact that the only thing separating her and Tom Riddle was a measly stone wall.

Oh, and the fact that she had absolutely no idea how to explain why she was crumpled on his dorm room floor. She couldn't very well say she was taking a goddamn nap.

"Shit." She racked her fingers through her hair irritably. Stupid Snape and Dumbledore, sending her gallivanting straight into mini-Voldemort's arms. She had only been with the kid for five minutes (wrinkling her nose at the Slytherin robes and Prefect badge) and already his damn perceptiveness was giving her a headache.

The way he stared at her! As if he could peel back the layers of her mind with a simple glance, as if he knew everything about her—

_Fuck!_

Could he read minds? Voldemort wasknown to casually torture his victims into submission with Occlumency every once and a while. But did mini-V know how to do it too?

She had no idea! She didn't know anything about the bastard or about the 40's! She was—

"Wait! That's it!" Shooting a victorious grin into the bathroom mirror Morgan dug through the pockets of her skirt. First, she pulled out her shrunken trunk and then her wand. Hadn't Dumbledore and Snape said something about providing her with all the information she needed?

With a wave of her wand, Morgan restored her trunk to its normal size. Sprawling very unladylike onto the floor, the witch quickly wrenched open the trunk's lid. She gave a sigh of relief when she saw, placed neatly on top of numerous books, a thick envelope. She wasted no time in opening it and scanning its contents.

'_Your name is Leah Hume and you are a half-blood witch from up north whose parents have decided to cease your home schooling and send you to Hogwarts to escape Grindelwald's war. Enclosed is a fake letter from your father elaborating on your situation. It would do you well to read it Caldwell—'_

Morgan shrugged flippantly before crumpling up the letter from her former Headmaster and shuffling through the other contents in the folder. There were several pieces of parchment dedicated to mini-V and his time at Hogwarts and a few more describing the situation in Northern Europe. The only other thing in the folder was a signed and sealed envelope addressed to Dippet.

Morgan figured she had already spent enough time in the bathroom, so after putting the letter to Dippet in her skirt pocket, she once again shrunk her trunk and its contents. Stuffing her wand up the sleeve of her blouse and her trunk into another available pocket, she strode out the door and back to her guide.

Mini-V was waiting for her outside, leaning against the wall across from the bathroom effortlessly. And loathe as she was to admit it, Morgan knew that the kid was pretty damn attractive. Too bad he would grow up to be the biggest baddy of them all, or else she would have had to put the moves on him.

She almost laughed out loud at the thought.

"Ready Cameron?" He questioned, his voice as smooth as ever.

Morgan winced unhappily; she had forgotten she told him her name was Cameron Diaz…Oh well, that was an issue for another time. She felt his dark eyes scrutinizing her and she realized he was waiting for an answer. "Oh…yeah, let's go."

Playing the part of the clueless exchange student, Morgan let Tom lead the way, opting to trail a little bit behind him. "So…uh, where are all the kids and stuff?"

Tom slowed his pace so that she could catch up, "They're at the feast." He said simply.

Morgan nodded, that made a lot of sense, but… "Why weren't you there?" Now walking side by side, it was easy for her to study the tall Prefect. And it was lucky that she was, or else she would have missed the slight hardening of his gaze.

"Prefect duties."

Now she knew that was a load of bull. Prefects weren't supposed to be in their common rooms until after the feast. They didn't have any special duties. Besides, students didn't learn their common room passwords until after everyone was done eating. She opened her mouth to call him out on his lie, but then stopped, realizing that if she really was an exchange student she wouldn't know anything of Prefect duties and formalities.

Tom raised one elegant eyebrow and Morgan realized her mouth was still open. Good thing she had no shame, or else she would have blushed out of embarrassment. "…Oh, I see." She made sure to shoot him an extra suspicious glare for the hell of it.

"Here we are," Tom stopped in front of the Great Hall doors. "Now I do believe everyone should be eating at the moment, but…" He frowned unhappily, "I very well can't leave a young lady standing out here by herself, that would be rude."

Morgan wanted to tell him that killing people was also very rude, and how that never stopped him before, but tightly refrained from doing so. She had to keep reminding herself that she was in the past; she had no idea if he had already murdered anyone or not. "Alright…so are we just gunna sit out here all day or should we actually put one foot in front of the other and get this over with?"

Tom spun away from the door to stare at her again, a frown pulling at his lips. "It's very unbecoming of a young lady to use sarcasm." He chided her sternly, "I don't care how young you are, proper manners are important to learn, even for a third year."

Morgan eyes widened as she took in his words, "HEY I AM NOT A THIRD YEAR!" She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him darkly. "I am a sixth year, thank you very much." She finished in a more inside-friendly tone.

"You certainly aren't acting like one," Tom replied.

Before Morgan could shoot back a retort he walked forward and pushed open the Great Hall doors. "After you," he said politely.

She made to sure to make a point of rolling her eyes at him.

Walking into the hall, Morgan couldn't help but stare. It was almost exactly the same as the Great Hall she had spent most of her Hogwarts years in. In fact, her head spun on its own accord to look expectantly at the Gryffindor table, and she unconsciously began searching for her friends. It took her a long moment to remember what time she was in exactly, and couldn't help but let an unhappy scowl take the place of her usually carefree smile. She already missed seeing the, every day, even though when she had left the future they were all rather angry with her. Morgan supposed then that what she missed most were the days when everyone she cared for had been unchanged by war. But those times were long gone for her, or should she say long ahead? Whatever, time travel was confusing. It made no sense for her past to be in the future.

While she had been mulling over her rather depressing thoughts, everyone else in the hall had taken a long minute to stare curiously at the guest. The enchanted candles levitating in the air shone brightly on the witch, doing nothing to really help her appearance. Even most of the staff looked uneasily between the girl and their school Prefect.

"Come on," Tom said gently, trying to not let any of his anger seep through his words. He hated the attention he was receiving, especially because there would certainly be questions about why he had left the feast now.

"Hmm?" Morgan looked away from the Gryffindor table to see Tom staring at her, only the slightest of frowns tugging at the bottom of his lips, though his darkened gaze was enough to let her know that he was getting angry. "Yeah, right." She sheepishly rubbed the back of her head, but refused to apologize as she walked down the hall towards the staff table, Tom following reluctantly beside her.

"Tom, my boy! What do we have here?" Slughorn was the first to greet the unusual duo: a rigid school Prefect and a slouching stranger.

Morgan's eyes twinkled mischievously as she spied her younger and slightly smaller Potions professor. He was wearing colorful green robes and his mop of brown hair was neatly brushed back. He had retained his bulging eyes though, and they stared with interest at Morgan.

"A young lady wishing to speak with the Headmaster," Tom responded to the question simply, his dark eyes glancing back to watch the expression on Morgan's face suspiciously.

"Ah! Not a problem then, huh?" He winked in Morgan's direction. "Headmaster, we have a young lady that wishes to see you!"

Morgan didn't bother to hide her displeasure at being spoken to like a child. Her eyes glowered at Horace and a more prominent scowl marred her features. She crossed her arms stiffly.

It had seemed though, that Slughorn didn't need to try and attempt to grab the Headmaster's attention, the man was already focused on the stranger in his Great Hall.

Dippet was a rather thin a wiry man, with wispy remains of gray-brown hair and a clean shaven face. Wrinkles collected themselves by the edges of his eyes, giving Morgan the impression that he was getting old.

"Now who is this?" Dippet looked expectantly at Tom.

Tom walked over to the center of the staff table, motioning for Morgan to follow him. He came to a stop right before the Headmaster. "This is Cam—"

"Leah Hume!" Morgan interrupted hastily.

The glare Tom shot her was nothing short of unwelcomed surprise.

Good thing she was used to people having less than satisfactory feelings towards her. "Leah Hume," she repeated more calmly to Dippet. "And I really need to speak with you."

---

Morgan slouched in the seat before the Headmaster's desk, not really caring for manners at the moment. Crowded into what she thought was a surprisingly boring Headmaster's office was almost all of the school staff, including Tom Riddle, who stood stiff-backed with a pleasant look on his face.

Dippet was seated behind his desk, his eyes wearily scanning over the letter she had unceremoniously thrust into his hands after the feast.

"Miss Hume…you have come from the North then?"

Morgan nodded, "That's what the letter says…"

Dippet was apparently an easy man to please, for he did not fish for more information. "Alright. Well, I have to say that I will need to send another letter out to your family, just to make sure everything is in order…Dumbledore, you'll take care of that for me, won't you dear friend?"

If it was at all possible, Morgan felt herself paling even more as a younger and more vitalized Dumbledore stepped forward and nodded cheerfully. "Certainly Headmaster, I'll take care of that right away." He tugged at his auburn beard thoughtfully, a smile gracing his face as he looked down at Morgan. "Nice to meet you, Miss Hume."

Morgan tried to keep herself from staring. It was a lot to take in. Her dead Headmaster was there, alive as ever, smiling graciously at her without a care in the world. She forced herself to nod in response to his greeting, "Nice to meet you too, sir." She looked hastily to the Headmaster then, "But you won't be able to write my parents."

Tom leaned forward, curiosity and a bit of eagerness giving fire to his gaze. He stared at Morgan unabashedly, "Really, Miss _Hume_, why is that?" His tone was laced with innocence, but Morgan heard the infliction he put on her last name.

She held in a snort, like hell it was any business of his. But apparently Dumbledore, Dippet, Slughorn, and a few other professors were just as keen to know what she had meant by her statment as well.

"My parents are dead." She said, composing her face into a sorrowful expression, one that wasn't hard to hold when she realized her real parents could have very well died years ago, and she wouldn't have known. A down-side of living in an orphanage, especially the one she grew up in…

"How did they die, Miss Hume, I know this must be a touchy subject for you, but we need to know everything we can about your situation. As you know, it is grave times that we live in, and letting in simply any student won't do at all." Dippet regarded her sympathetically.

"Grindelwald's follower's kidnapped both my parents. I'm a half-blood, you see, my mother was a Muggle and my dad was a wizard. I don't know what it was they did, but it was something that really pissed em' off because I come back from the store one day and their gone. My parents were already gunna send me to Hogwarts, because of how bad the situation was getting, and the only thing left of them that I could find was that letter." Morgan gestured to the parchment lying on Dippet's desk. "I don't know where my parents are, but I can tell you that they probably aren't alive."

Tom's arms were crossed as he finished listening to her explanation, suspicion causing him to ask another question, "Where are you from up north?"

Dippet shot Tom a disapproving glare, "Now, now, Tom, let's not bombard her with questions. She's had a tough time, as I can tell."

Morgan let her eyes glaze over with unshed tears just to enhance the story. She roughly wiped at her nose, as if she didn't want anyone to know that she was crying. "N-no. It's fine." She smiled weakly at Dippet, "I came from France, but I was originally born in Ireland. We moved around a lot when I was a kid, hence the need for a home schooling tutor."

Dumbledore stood beside her and gave her back a soft pat, "It's alright," he said soothingly, his blue eyes twinkling. He pulled out his wand and waved it once, causing a handkerchief to appear. Morgan took it gratefully, throwing herself fully into the character of Leah Hume. She was finally grateful for all those community plays she volunteered for before going to Hogwarts.

"How did you get here dear?" Dippet questioned softly.

Morgan pretended to choke back a sob. "Well, after I left my house I traveled my own ways until I finally found Diagon Alley. I used the Floo Network to get here then. But, I accidentally ended up in—"

"Dumbledore's office," Tom interjected, never taking his eyes off Morgan. "I was on my way to the bathroom when I heard cluttering coming from your office, sir," he inclined his head towards Dumbledore. "I went in to investigate and I found Miss Hume there."

Dumbledore looked at Morgan thoughtfully, "Is that true, Miss Hume?"

Morgan had to refrain herself from glaring in annoyance at mini-V. "Yes. Yes it is." She trained her blue eyes back to Dippet, "Is it at all possible that I come to school here? I know that without finishing up my schooling I will have nothing as a means of making good money."

Dippet considered her for a moment, "Well, your O.W.L.s are here in the letter," he retrieved an official looking form and looked it over with a small smile. "And you did rather well on them, so I don't see why not…"

"Is there any way we can contact your previous tutor?" Dumbledore asked, not unkindly.

Morgan quickly tried to cover her tracks. "I don't know…" She mumbled sadly. "She was at the house when my parents were taken…I haven't seen her since."

Dippet nodded again, "Very well then, do you have your wand and a trunk with school books?"

Morgan willed an embarrassed blush to coat her cheeks, "When I was at Diagon Alley, sir, I happened to come upon a discarded sixth year book list, so I took it upon myself to buy everything just in case I was accepted into your school."

Slughorn gave a hearty laugh, "That's the way to be prepared young lady!" He crowed happily. "Now enough with these questions, let's sort this lovely lady and see what house she shall be in! Hope she'll be in Slytherin with us, don't you Tom my boy?"

Tom didn't look very happy with the idea, but smiled nonetheless.

Morgan straightened up in her seat more and shot a conspicuous glance at Dumbledore while Dippet searched for the Sorting Hat.

"Are you in a house, sir?" She asked quietly.

Dumbledore nodded, "I am Head of the Gryffindor house, Miss Hume." He grinned at her, his blue eyes studying her over his half-moon spectacles. "And I would be very happy if you became a Gryffindor."

Morgan couldn't help but let a large smile pull the corners of her lips up. Dumbledore had always been one of the only people she ever really looked to for approval.

As soon as Dippet returned with the old hat, he politely described to her what was about to take place. He took great care in explaining each of the houses; Slytherin, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor, letting her know that no matter what house she was sorted into she would be treated like family. Morgan had a feeling that was true for all the houses except Slytherin, if the hardened eyes of Tom Riddle were anything to go by.

But, she knew that if she wanted to at all get closer to discovering that necklace she should stick with him. And with that thought in mind, she furiously decided to do whatever it took to get into Slytherin.

The large Sorting Hat was placed over her head.

_'Ah, Miss Caldwell, we meet again.'_

Morgan frowned into the material of the hat. _'Hey! What do you mean by that? I've never seen you before in my life!'_

The hat chuckled. _'Time means nothing to me, Morgan. I am here sorting you in 1943 while at the same time I am sorting you in 1992.'_

_'That made no sense, Mr. Hat.'_ Morgan informed the cloth.

_'Life rarely does…'_ the hat intoned mysteriously. _'But that is not of importance right now. Where to sort you…hmmm…'_

_'Slytherin!'_ Morgan thought loudly.

_'Now why should I do that?'_

_'Because if you don't, I'll put you through a paper-shredder—'_

_'But surely, you wish to be put where you belong…'_

_'—And then I'll set you on fire—'_

_'A lot of courage I see…recklessness as well…'_

_'—Or give you to a five year old as a party hat—'_

_'Not enough smarts for Ravenclaw'_

_'—Or I'll throw you in the mud—'_

_'A desire to take care of one's friends…'_

_'—I mean, c'mon, what's the big deal? All you need to do is say one word—'_

_'But there's also the selfish desire to prove yourself…not to mention cunning…'_

_'—Say it with me, Slllyyythhherrrineee—'_

_'Not a lot of power…but deception lies within you…and a growing darkness I think…'_

_'—I am going to kill you and it will be a crime of passion—'_

"SLYTHERIN IT IS!"

_'And then…Oh, wait, never mind. Your life shall be spared.'_

"Well m'dear! I knew it from the moment I laid eyes on you! I'm glad to be welcoming you into a great house!" A not-so attractive view of Slughorn's face floated in front of her, waiting for her reaction.

Morgan grinned; her job was about to get a whole lot easier.


	7. Chapter Six

**A/N:** Well, there ya go. Another chapter done! I had a lot of fun writing this one(: Next chapter will be about the rest of Morgan's classes on her first day and it might be out tomorrow, depending on how much time I have left. Thanks to **CrackedLips, tpfang56, kellie-rose** (who was my VERRRAAAY first reviewer!!:D)**, shadowontherun, and Diina** for the lovely reviews you all submitted. They made me very happy. And thanks to those who put this story on their Alert/Fave. Oh, and if I keep getting reviews like that, guys, I might just have to update everyday(;

Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, I wouldn't be checking over my work ever five seconds to make sure everyone is in character. (Oh, the woes of a fanfiction writer!)

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**Chapter Six: The Shameless Slytherin  
**

Morgan padded lightly after Tom Riddle, whistling a cheery tune as they made their way down the dark corridors. After having been sorted into the Slytherin house, Dippet instructed the school Prefect to guide her to the common room and help her get settled in. Neither order sat well with Riddle, though he did a good job of hiding his discontent.

Walking beside the fellow sixth year, Morgan felt like she understood what Dumbledore meant when he said he couldn't send Harry after mini-V. Even though the Dark Lord had never specifically targeted her in the 90's, she harbored hate for the man. And often more times than not, she had to stop herself from imagining up circumstances in which she would be able to sock Riddle in the nose. She couldn't even begin to fathom how little control Harry would have over his actions if he saw Voldemort unprotected and vulnerable.

But regardless of the fact that Tom Riddle was going to turn into Voldemort, Morgan didn't like the kid. He was just too…smart? Dark? Perceptive? Manipulating? Perhaps it was all those things at once. It was unsettling to be around someone whose expressions and emotions were always fake. She figured that every comment mini-V made was quickly calculated beforehand. Everything about him was planned. Nothing about him was real.

It was annoying, Morgan realized. She wanted to see something that wasn't planned on his face. She wanted to see him squirm.

"Riddle," she said slowly, "Why did you say that you found me in Dumbledore's office instead of telling the Headmaster the truth?" Her face was the picture of innocence when Tom turned his head towards her sharply.

He studied her for a moment before replying in that annoyingly calm and collected voice, "Prefects are usually not allowed to go to their common rooms before the feast ends. But I forgot my wand, so I took a quick trip down there, nothing terribly against the rules, but something frowned upon nonetheless."

Throwing all caution to the wind, Morgan chuckled. "You, Tom Riddle, are a very good liar."

The comment caused the Slytherin to stop suddenly, his eyes narrowed, "I do not know what you mean, Miss Hume." His voice was still polite.

Morgan frowned, "All this 'Miss' business is irritating. Just call me by my last name."

"Which one?" Tom said unkindly, before quickening his steps. They had just reached the stairs that led to the dungeons, and Morgan began to get the impression that he was trying to get away from her as fast as possible.

"Oh, right. Sorry about that. Hit my head a bit hard, ya know, amnesia or something like that." She had a feeling that her lie was downright terrible, but she didn't really care. She didn't need mini-V to like her in order to complete her mission.

"Don't waste my time with your lies, Hume." Riddle ground out, his voice hardening. "I have more important things to do."

"You know, I could say the same thing to you, Riddle, but I am much too polite to do so."

Almost at once Tom froze on the stairs, his back going more rigid than normal. He stayed like that for a minute, as if contemplating a decision, before finally turning around to face her. A dark expression clouded his eyes, though his face was otherwise impassive.

"You might want to watch your words, Hume. I know for a fact that everything you told Dippet in there was untruthful. You're lucky I don't care enough to actually find out who it is you really are. Just stay out of my way, or else you might find Hogwarts a most unpleasant school."

The threat was spoken suddenly in a low voice, and though the words were intended to scare her, they had the opposite effect. Morgan could actually feel herself relaxing more. It was a nice refresher to know that the man in front of her was no more a polite, rule abiding child than she was. He was Lord Voldemort and she was Morgan Caldwell. There would be no lies or pretenses for them to work around. They were both straight out distrustful of one another, and that was better than having to pretend to be civil.

"You want try and intimidate me? Fine, go ahead. See where that gets _you_ Riddle." Morgan mocked him openly. "But right now, I am tired of these mind games, so be the gentleman that you like to think you are and escort me to the common room."

It seemed as if Riddle was actually thinking about pulling out his wand and hexing her right then and there. Though his moment of anger passed suddenly, and instead of giving her a reason to tackle him down the flight of stairs ahead of them, he just glared and continued walking.

The rest of the trip was completed in silence. Well, silence on Riddle's part and humming on Morgan's. Luckily for the Slytherin heir, it wasn't long before they reached the stone wall that led to the common room.

Morgan watched with interest as Riddle walked forward and placed his hand on a specific stone. And then, in a clear voice, he simply said, "Felix Felicis."

A large portion of the wall swung inwards then, leading into the Slytherin common room. She hadn't had time to take a good look around when she was first discovered in Riddle's dorm, but now that she did have the time, she found the area to be rather gloomy.

It was a low-ceilinged room with greenish lamps hanging in most places. High-backed chairs were collected around the fireplace while a few dark couches sat in the corners. The entire atmosphere was dark, and Morgan could barely see the two staircases on the other side of the room. One staircase, she guessed, led to the girls' dorms, and the other to the boy's.

The dungeon was empty now, besides for the few older students circling around the fire, talking in hushed voices. Morgan didn't like, it made her think they were planning something, and she immediately went on guard. It took her a moment to remind herself that in this time she was one of them, and that they had no reason to act poorly towards her…yet.

"Your dorm is up there," Riddle said blandly. And then, he spun on his heel and walked right back out into the corridor. Morgan almost followed him— after all, it was possible that he was looking for the Founders Necklace— but stopped herself from doing so, knowing that getting on Riddle's nerves was one thing, but letting him realize that her interest in him went deeper than mutual dislike was another.

Instead she stalked up the stairs to the girls' dormitories, walking through the adjoining hallway until she found the door labeled 'Sixth Years'. Throwing it open, she was thankful to notice that a bed had already been conjured up for her, and that the dorm had been expanded accordingly. She also noted the sixth year girls had their own fireplace as well, and she chalked it up to the fact that it was colder in the dungeons than anywhere else in the castle.

"Who're you?"

Morgan looked up to see her dorm mates tending to their own beds respectively.

"We all saw you at the feast with Tom, but whatever are you doing in our dorm?" It was the same witch that spoke the first time. She was tall and pale, with daunting brown eyes and thick black hair. She was meticulously groomed, full lips parted in an emotionless smile.

Morgan resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably from her position, "Leah Hume," she stated. "Transfer student. And you are?"

The witch inclined her head, "Lucretia Black."

The other girls in her dorm introduced themselves as well; Violetta Fanding was a slim, blonde haired witch with a cool exterior; Marinette Blooming was a shorted, stout witch sporting waist-length brown hair; and finally, there was Isabella Marston, easily the prettiest out of the four witches, with startling green eyes and curled red hair that complimented her rosy cheeks.

"Your bed, I believe, is that one right there, wouldn't you say so Violetta?" Morgan decided she didn't like the sound of Marinette Blooming's voice, it was low and coarse. Besides, there was the way that she said her words, almost as if they meant something different all together.

"Right, er… I guess I'll just get settled then." No one else said anything, and Morgan sniffed in annoyance. Out of all the houses that mini-V could have been in…he had to be in the one that had the least amount of fun.

Taking the last bed settled up against the stone wall, Morgan pulled out her trunk and quickly enlarged it to its original size. Her small, four-poster bed was covered with a thick green comforter and silver sheets. A dark colored curtain hung around her space, promising her privacy when she wished to sleep. Already sitting on the mattress was a piece of parchment with her timetable and two sets of school robes with the Slytherin crest. All in all, everything seemed to be in order.

"What classes do you have?" Marston had wandered over to her bunk and sat herself carefully down on Morgan's bed.

Morgan watched, curious, as the witch smoothed out the creases in her skirt with manicured hands. Her back was straight and her legs crossed tightly together. The behavior baffled Morgan, who was used to her friends letting loose in the dorms and sprawling out everywhere. She wondered if it was only the Slytherins who acted so proper or if it was all the girls in the school.

"Classes…" Morgan shuffled around for her timetable and passed it out to Isabella.

"You have a loaded schedule, quite the scholar I see," Marston said politely, running a primed fingernail down the list. "Merrythought, Slughorn, and Dumbledore are really good professors. Their classes are easy to learn in. Professor Binns is dreadfully boring," the witch giggled a bit, carefully covering her mouth with one hand while she did so, "He's a ghost you see. Oh, and Kettleburn's class is scary, not many girls sign up for that one—"

"That is because, Marston, it is improper for young women to waste away their time with the dreadful beasts that inhabit the forests. Spending your time like that is surely not the way to attract the attention of a good boy and get married." Black interrupted darkly.

Isabella blushed, "Yes, of course, Lucretia, we understand that." She turned to Morgan then, "Maybe you can speak with Dippet and have him change that dreadful class."

Morgan shook her head, "Naw, I love working with animals. I used to go to the Muggle zoos when I was younger."

Blooming's wheezy laugh assaulted Morgan's ears, "Leah, honestly, why would you enjoy a thing like that? Hanging around Muggles, that's rather comical, darling."

Morgan purposely scrunched her nose at the aforementioned Slytherin, causing Marston to smile slightly.

"Anyways, we have a few classes together: Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions, Transfiguration, History of Magic, and Charms. Then you have Herbology, Care of Magical Creatures, Astronomy, and Ancient Runes by yourself." Marston looked at Morgan, puzzled. "Why are you taking Ancient Runes?"

Morgan glanced down at her schedule to, and groaned. "Aw, bloody hell. I dunno what Dippet was thinking. Isn't that class supposed to be hard?"

Blooming stared at Morgan open-mouthed, Black's lips were pursed into a thin line, and Marston's eyes had widened slightly. Fanding was the only one who did not react at all.

"That certainly isn't the language for a proper lady to have," Black said sternly, her glare burning holes into Morgan's body. "It would do you well to remember that, Hume, least you bring shame to our house."

Morgan rolled her eyes.

"Perhaps you should finish up organizing your stuff, Isabella, you always let your possessions get out of hand." Blooming commented saucily.

The redheaded witch blushed before nodding her head and stepping away from Morgan. "They're right, I can be messy. I should clean up." She walked back to her own bunk, but not before shooting Morgan a speculative and innocent glance.

"Don't worry," Violetta Fanding said in a monotone voice, one that was neither condescending nor warm, "I am taking Ancient Runes as well. If you find that you are having trouble, I will be more than willing to assist you."

Morgan nodded in acceptance before searching through her trunk for some clothes to sleep in. She wasn't surprised to find that all the books she needed for her classes were in the trunk; Snape _had _said almost everything would be provided to her, and she was grateful, even though the only pajamas she found to was a sheet-like night gown that would trail down to her feet. She would have tried to transfigure the hideous pajamas into something more comfortable and less 'Virgin-Mary-Like' but knew that with her luck, she would end up setting the dorm on fire. She opted to kick off her shoes, pull off her stockings, un-tuck her button down shirt, and climb into bed instead. If it was at all possible, Black's lips pursed themselves into a thinner disapproving line.

After getting comfy, Morgan _almost_ pulled out Snape's letter and _almost_ pulled out the thick folder on Tom Riddle, but rationalized that there was tons of time to do so, and that mini-V wasn't going anywhere. It had been a long night, and now that she thought about it, she knew the days ahead would be even longer.

For one thing, she didn't want anyone to know that she was a Metamorphmagus. So far she had been doing a good job making sure that her actions did not dictate the color of her hair or eyes. But still, if she got too angry or too happy or too sad…well, she wasn't sure she would be able to stop her appearance from changing accordingly. Though she wasn't worried about the shape of her eyes or nose, changing those things took a lot of concentration, and couldn't be done unknowingly.

There was also the issue of the scars now lining her chest. She certainly didn't want those to be seen. Not because it would have struck many people as odd and unusual, but because she didn't want to hear the questions that would arise.

And hell, there was even the Dark Mark that she had to be careful of. She couldn't let that be seen, not at all. She reached over and pulled the curtains around her bed before rolling up her sleeve and glancing at it. The tattoo of the snake squirming through the human skull no longer moved or burned: something she was grateful for. She would need to look up concealing spells though, just in case it was possible to cover the mark up. Not only did she not want to have to go through the effort of physically hiding it every day, she also didn't want to have to look at it and be reminded of what she left behind.

It took a long while for sleep to finally reach her, but when it did, it was nice and dreamless.

---

Any lingering hope Morgan had for having fun in the Slytherin house was dashed the moment she woke up.

In her own time, Morgan was used to being awoken rudely, either by a pillow being thrown at her head or a friend smacking her into submission. It was one of those rituals that made waking up for school seem… _almost_ bearable.

Unfortunately for her, no such nonsense was tolerated in the Slytherin dorm. When Morgan was startled awake, it was by a soft, almost delicate shoving, that never went beyond a cool, unknown detachment. And when she finally did open her eyes she found that her fellow sixth years got ready quietly, almost without a word to one another. It was annoyingly dreary; the girls acted like they were getting ready for a bloody funeral.

What's worse, after Morgan clued them in on that fact and let them know that lightening up a bit never did any harm, they merely looked down their noses at her. It was rather disheartening. So instead of trying to further engage any of her robotic, no-fun allowed roommates in discussion, Morgan showered and got ready in silence.

She supposed that she was better off doing so regardless, for when she wasn't talking, Black and co. (as she was beginning to call the bland quartet) ignored her completely, not even sparing her a glance, which made it easier for her to conceal her Dark Mark and scars.

Walking down to breakfast in the Great Hall was slightly livelier, in the sense that Black idly chatted with Blooming about the latest 'Pureblood High-Society Balls' which were, apparently, to die for.

Morgan seriously doubted all of that, but was beginning to learn that if she kept her mouth shut she could actually block out Blooming's wheezing voice semi-successfully.

Actually eating in the Great Hall though, Morgan found, was much worse than any other part of her new morning ritual. Her dorm mates— after looking down their noses at the rest of the Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Gryffindor students— sauntered over to the Slytherin table, swaying their hips in a prim fashion that made Morgan stop for a moment, thinking that there was no way walking like that could be comfortable. Black tossed her an exasperated glare when she continued walking with her hands in her pocket and her back slouched forward.

The other houses studied her without remorse, analyzing every detail of her appearance and the way in which she held herself. Most of the students, it seemed, had come to the conclusion that she was nothing special: for they had adverted their eyes lazily. Only the Gryffindors eyed her longer, a weariness settling into their gazes.

"Leah, come on," Marston smiled in an almost-sincere way, grabbing her arm playfully and dragging her down into a seat next to Fanding. Black and Blooming were sitting across from them, carefully piling fruit onto their plates neatly. Marston soon followed suit, leaving Morgan as the only one to start shoveling eggs and toast into her mouth.

"Hume, would you stop eating like a savage?" Black inquired delicately, her voice sub-zero.

Morgan was about to respond saying that yes, yes it would, when Fanding interrupted on her behalf. "Hume's eating habits are not of your concern, Lucretia." The blonde-haired sixth year was reading a text book, choosing not to eat.

Morgan grinned, silently cheering at the fact that she had made a stony and intimidating ally. She also made a mental note to not associate Violetta with the rest of Black and co.

"T-tom! How are you this morning!"

Morgan looked up from her eggs to see Tom Riddle and a slew of other boys walking down the Slytherin table. Marston's cheeks were a bright red as she smiled at the Prefect, unconsciously fiddling with the hem of her skirt as she did so.

Morgan had wondered why her beautiful dorm mate had taken so much time to get ready that morning. Even though all the Slytherin girls were dressed in a similar uniform: knee-length black skirt, tucked in white blouse, shiny black shoes, and slimming black robes; the witch had taken a large amount of time adjusting her appearance compulsively, believing for some reason that pulling her robes to the left would make her more attractive. It was a shame all that work was wasted on Tom Riddle.

"Hello Isabella, I am well, how are you faring? And Miss Hume, it's a pleasure seeing you again." The evil overlord to be was standing to the left of Fanding, his body angled towards Marston in a respective fashion and his thin hands clasped behind his back. His lackeys, a group of unknown boys, stood by him loyally, casting curious glances at Morgan.

Marston blushed an even deeper red at Tom's greeting, while Morgan frowned. She turned around in her seat to face the Slytherin heir head-on. "I thought we decided last night that we weren't gunna pretend to be nice to each other? False pleasantries give me headaches."

Black glanced up from her continued conversation with Blooming, an expression of shock on her face. Morgan believed it was the most alive she seen her roommate look since arriving. "L-leah!" Her tone was one of scorn and reproach, almost as if she couldn't believe that Morgan had dared speak so rudely. She opened and closed her mouth a few times before coming to the conclusion that she had no words to offer.

Tom's polite smile hardened a bit, his dark eyes blank. "A good-morning to you regardless." He said stiffly before beginning to start towards the other end of the breakfast table.

Blooming stopped him though, "Oh, Tom, don't mind Leah, she's a rather odd witch. I'm not sure, but I think she might just be having a hard time adjusting to Hogwarts. Please, do come sit with us; of course Malfoy, Avery, Nott, Caldwell, and Prufoot are welcome as well."

Morgan started, flinging a forkful of eggs across the table and onto the floor. _Caldwell!?!_

Her fit of surprise was ignored, however, as Tom smiled gratefully (Morgan knew the gratitude wasn't real) and filled the six seats to the other side of Marston, who appeared as if she was about to die from happiness.

Morgan quickly threw down her silverware and grabbed at the ends of her hair, making sure they had not strayed away from their original brown in shock. A few patches of hair had turned a funny yellow color, and the Metamorphmagus put her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands. Blocking out the sounds and visions of the nosy hall helped her concentrate, and within seconds she knew that her hair had returned to normal.

"Are you quite alright, Hume? You seem to have catapulted your food, not to mention it looks like you're trying to curl up and die inside your hands."

Morgan wearily lifted her head to find the smallest hint of a half-there-half-not smile on Fanding's lips, her hazel eyes not once straying from the pages of her book.

"Ah, yeah, just fine." Morgan ruffled her hair when she felt a dainty hand tapping her shoulder.

"Leah, don't you want to meet some of the boys?"

_Great_. It was Marston again, and this time her voice was several octaves higher than usual.

"I would absolutely love to." Morgan replied, turning so that she faced the boys sitting beside Marston and straddled the bench. Her actions were met with raised eyebrows.

Tom, sitting right next to Marston and therefore nearest her, took it upon himself to do the introductions. "This is Abraxas Malfoy, a fellow sixth year." He gestured to a tall blond with a dazzling smile and grey eyes; Morgan had to hold back her snarky and biased comments. "Next to him is Marcus Prufoot, a seventh year, Head Boy and captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team." The boy in question had neatly trimmed brown hair and a malicious gaze. "Then we have Crux Nott, another sixth year," the next boy had dark hair, and bad teeth. "And Volans Avery, a seventh year," an auburn haired stout boy was pointed out.

"And of course, me," The last of the boys was grinning largely, a predatory look on his handsome face. He had startling honey colored hair and brown eyes, though no kindness was found in them. "Braxton Caldwell, at your service."

Morgan couldn't help but lean forward automatically, stretching herself rather oddly across Isabella and Tom to get a better look at Braxton. Her blue-eyes were large and wondering, an odd smile set upon her lips, as she reached her hand across the row of six boys, desperately grabbing for her might-be grandfather. "Mo-I mean, Leah Hume!"

Braxton looked thoroughly amused by the display of eagerness, and smiled condescendingly to the others while he met Morgan's handshake halfway. "The pleasure is all mine."

Morgan was still in a state of admiring disbelief when Blooming said offhandedly, "You can stop throwing yourself at him now, Hume, please, if not for the benefit of your dignity, for the benefit of poor Tom and Isabella."

Morgan jerked her hand back as if it burned, making sure to scoot more towards Fanding, who was still immersed in her book. "I-er, I wouldn't use the term 'throwing' per se…" she muttered distractedly, her eyes still locked onto Braxton. She left the sentence open, but instead of finishing it, stared at her plate in deep thought, seemingly oblivious to Tom's annoyance at the whole situation.

"Like my dear friend asked you before, boys, please excuse Leah. She didn't get a lot of sleep last night and is feeling under the weather. Not to mention that she—"

"—Doesn't like to be spoken about as if she's not there." Morgan declared loudly, looking up from her plate and openly scowling at Black. "I don't need you to make excuses for my behavior, woman, and I do not force my company upon those who don't deserve it." She stood up from her seat, kneeling down to snatch up her prepared schoolbag and grabbing a pastry from a nearby platter. "Now me and this muffin will take our leave!"

The sixth and seventh year Slytherins stared after her departing form, watching as the unimpressive addition to their house plopped down next to a first year at the edge of the table and began chatting amiably.

"Lucretia, dear, please close your mouth. It's rather unattractive for you to have it gaping open like that." Violetta turned a page in her book.

"I can't believe we have to share a room with her, she's shameless," Blooming muttered shallowly.

"Yes," Tom Riddle muttered, his attention returning to his breakfast. "Lucky you." There wasn't a hint of envy in his tone.


	8. Chapter Seven

**A/N: **Another chapter up! Thanks for the wonderful reviews, they really make my day! Now in a minute I'm gunna upload another chapter because I'm gunna be gone for a long time (Until next Friday) and I figured I should leave you guys with two chapter instead of one(:

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN.

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**Chapter Seven: Tell Me, What Do You Know of Bad Choices?**

"So you're new to the school too?" The chubby first year's surprised gaze held Morgan's attention. "Even though you're like, sixteen?"

Morgan nodded seriously, unable to speak due to the muffin clamped around her teeth.

She had decided, after departing from Black and co. / the minions of Tom Riddle, that she would prefer the company of someone who actually talked without carefully choosing their words first. After minor deliberation and some half-assed observations, Morgan realized no one at the Slytherin table knew how to hold an unscripted conversation. At least, that's what she thought until she met Lyra Smeaton.

Lyra was rather short with child-like wonder hidden in her large brown orbs. She spoke her mind freely, and openly relayed her fears of Hogwarts to the elder Slytherin. In other words, the kid was uncorrupted by the less than desirable company she held.

Morgan had just finished chewing her muffin when the morning bell rang. "Well, off to classes then, oh joy." She muttered crossly, standing up from the table and waiting for her new friend to join her.

"I know what you mean," Lyra said unpleasantly. "This castle would be amazing, if only we didn't have to waste our time learning in it." The eleven year old came up to Morgan's chest and walked with her brow furrowed in irritation. "I don't like any of my dorm mates either, all they do is laugh at me cause' I'm a half-blood."

Morgan threw her bag over her shoulder and started off towards the Great Hall exit, "You don't say…"

"Yes, they all laugh and say I'm not worthy. It's ridiculous." Lyra fiddle with her robes. "It's bad enough that my parents can't afford anything for me, and that we have to borrow money from the school to get second-hand stuff…"

The sixth year puzzled over her younger friend's words, stuffing her hands in her robe pockets, "You know, Lyra, I think you're pretty amazing."

"Yeah, and everyone seems to hold your opinion in such high regard."

Well, there was really no arguing with that statement.

The duo paused outside in the entrance hall, Lyra watching as the other first year Slytherin students trailed down a corridor to the left. First year Ravenclaw students soon followed after.

"I guess I should go then," Lyra mumbled unhappily.

Morgan nodded affirmatively before her eyes sparkled, "Yes, you should, but you ought to not follow your other classmates."

"What do you mean?"

Morgan physically turned the small child's body to the right, so that they were both gazing at a dark passageway. "You have Defense Against the Dark Arts first, correct? On the second floor, third door in?" The witch didn't wait for her companion to answer. "Take this hallway and start climbing up the second staircase that you come across. I promise you that you'll get there faster than everyone else, even with the head start they have."

"How do you know that?"

"I snuck out after curfew to explore the castle last night. I think I'll be doing it more often too, but don't worry, I'll show you any of the secret passageways and shortcuts I find." Morgan lied while giving Lyra a small push, "Hurry up Smeaton, you wouldn't want to be late! What would the professors think?"

Lyra hurried down the dark hallway, glaring over her shoulder at Morgan before turning a corner, "I could say the same to you Hume!"

Morgan scoffed. She had already wasted five years of her life hurrying to classes anxiously, she wasn't about to waste another.

---

Tom Riddle's back was meticulously straight in the wooden chair he sat upon. His cold features were collected into a thoughtful expression as he appeared to listen intently to the teachings of Professor Bragidly. In the seats next to him were only a few of his loyal followers: Nott, Malfoy, and Lestrange, and though Riddle had the decency to pretend to listen, they did not.

Fortunately for them, the sound of the Charms' classroom door opening offered an appreciated distraction from their forthcoming lecture.

"The new student? Miss Hume? Can I inquire as to why it is you were late?" Bragidly looked over his round glasses at the girl walking in. His beady eyes darkened in disapproval as he took in Leah's slouching stature and absentminded expression.

Tom's eyes glanced over the girl dismissively, as if she wasn't worth his time. He had already decided that she was a person to be simply tolerated, and only dealt with unless absolutely necessary.

"Yes, yes you can." He heard Leah answer, her hands annoyingly stuffed into her pockets again. She was standing by the front of Bragidly's desk, staring at the professor expectantly.

"Well?" Bragidly tapped his wand, waiting for an answer. "Why haven't you answered my question?" He demanded.

Leah grinned, her features lighting up, "Oh, but I did answer your question. It's not my fault it was a poorly worded one. You asked me if you could inquire as to why I was late, you did not ask for the reason." She pulled her thin hands out of her pockets and clasped them behind her back, rocking on the balls of her feet.

"Miss Hume, I will not tolerate any cheek from my students, new or not." Bragidly eyed her seriously. "Five points from Slytherin. And now you will tell me why it is you were seven minutes late to my class." The middle-aged man stood up from his chair then, walking around to the chalkboard in the room and waving his wand so that instructions appeared on it.

"Well, you see, I was having a rather engaging conversation with a first year, sir."

"You were speaking with a first year? Were you asking for directions? I was under the impression that Mr. Riddle was to show you around the school," Bragidly shot Tom a withering look from the front of the class. Tom was about to speak up and defend himself when Leah interrupted.

"Professor!" She mocked, "You wound me! I was not lost. I simply preferred the first year's company over that of the other students in my house. Slytherin's aren't really a welcoming bunch, if you know what I mean." Leah made a show of glaring at Tom now, before her eyes rolled over to Lucretia Black.

Bragidly bristled for a moment, unsure of how to proceed with the situation. Never in his time teaching had he come across such an outspoken young lady. He didn't like it. "Right. Well, off to your seat then."

Leah shrugged, her smile siding off her face, while for some odd reason, she rubbed her left forearm irritably. Tom noticed the way her blue eyes turned to him once or twice, an unspoken accusation lingering in their depths. A few of the Hufflepuff's in the room smiled at her, approving of her insults to the Slytherin house; Tom's fist unconsciously curled. It was only her first day in classes and the girl was already a traitor, speaking poorly of her own kind. It sickened him.

Once Leah was seated all the way in the back of the classroom, Bragidly began his lecture. He prattled on and on about the ridiculously easy Atmosphereic charm that they would be casting. Tom let his mind wander, knowing that there were more important things that he could be doing. As the heir of Slytherin—he slowly stroked Marvolo's ring at the thought—he didn't need to be wasting his time with spells and charms he already knew. No, instead he could be spending this time looking for that necklace…the one with all that power.

A small smile came over his face at the thought.

**---**

Morgan grumpily browsed the library shelves, her eyes trailing over the spines of books while her mind thought to the Charms essay she had to write. What kind of teacher assigned homework on the first day of class? Bragidly was off his damn rocker, if you asked her.

She ran a hand through her hair while she searched for spell books. She was looking for a strong concealing charm, deciding that hiding the Dark Mark should be her top priority. In her previous Defense Against the Dark Arts class she had sat in the back of the room and unknowingly rolled up her sleeves. Halfway through the lecture a curious Gryffindor questioned her about the spot of black on her arm and she nearly had a heart attack

The student, Charlus Potter, had simply chuckled at her reaction before pulling her into a conversation. The boy had learned about her scorning of the Slytherin house, and along with his friend Kayden Macmillan, had decided that she wasn't so bad for a snake. Morgan found herself getting along with the Harry Look-Alike very well, realizing that his mischievous nature was just the thing she needed in such a serious environment.

It had been fun befriending the Gryffindors, but the fact still remained that her encounter with Charlus had been a close call. If he had been staring for just a moment longer at her Dark Mark…well, she didn't want to think about what could have happened then.

Pulling out a few books, Morgan waddled over to a nearby table and began religiously pouring through them. She ignored her grumbling stomach—she was used to going hungry anyways—and tried to read speedily. The faster she worked on hiding the Dark Mark the sooner she could start searching for the Founders Necklace.

After an hour of studying pages full of charms and spells, Morgan scooped up the books under her arm and went to check them out. The librarian gave her an encouraging smile and sent her on her way.

Morgan checked her schedule, noting that she had Transfiguration next. She cheered silently at the fact that she would be able to speak with Dumbledore. Stuffing her other books inside her bag she happily wandered down to the first floor where she knew the sixth year class was being held.

She actually arrived on time, and Dumbledore greeted her cheerily. "Hello Miss Hume, how has your very first day at Hogwarts been?"

Morgan stopped and straightened her posture, a large smile taking over her usually thoughtful features. "It's been okay. I don't think Professor Bragidly thinks very highly of me though."

Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled, "Can't win them all over, can you?"

Morgan sighed, "Yeah, I guess my charm doesn't work on everyone."

Dumbledore noted her bulging bag, "Doing some extra reading already?"

"Yeah, I never had access to such a library before," Morgan said, the lie slipping from her tongue easily. She wandered into the classroom then, picking a seat near the front. Moments later the rest of the students filed in, and the Ravenclaws gave her a weary gaze. Morgan sent them a sarcastic smile and wave in return.

She saw Tom Riddle walk into the room, his footsteps crisp and precise. They didn't spare each other a glance. Black and co. soon followed after, chatting politely and stiffly with one another. Violetta Fanding came in next, and without a word she stole into the seat next to Morgan.

"Good morning students." Dumbledore stepped back into the room, spreading his arms out wide. "And welcome to yet another year at Hogwarts. Now, as sixth years it has come to my attention that most of you will come of age during these next few months. With that in mind, I have decided to alter the curriculum slightly so that we may spend a small period of time going over Animagus Transfiguration."

Many of the students leaned forward in their seat then, pausing to give each other hopeful glances.

"Today, I shall bring forth a device that, when looked upon, reveals what your Animagus form will be. Then, should you decide that you want to explore this Transfiguration further, you will be presented with the opportunity to take extra lessons to become a registered Animagus with the Ministry of Magic. These extra lessons, of course, will take place much further in the year and only those with impeccable grades will be accepted into the course." At this time, the old wizard leaned down before his desk and brought out a large silver bowl. Runes shined around the bowl's surface, glinting in the daylight. Inside the bowl a curious clear liquid with a bluish sheen that rippled every so often.

"Now then, one row at a time."

Quickly, the people in Morgan's row hopped to their feet, eagerly sorting themselves into a line. Morgan and Violetta filed in last. One by one the students stared into the bowl, some gasping with delight and others sighing unhappily at what they saw. When it was finally Violetta's turn, the blond witch merely peered into the liquid before walking away impassively. Morgan went next, her blue orbs gazing into priceless bowl.

The liquid shimmered and rippled for a long moment, showing her reflection, before her face in the water began to change. Instead of staring at herself, then, she was staring at a small black fox with shining eyes.

Her mouth gaped open for a moment before the person behind her poked her in the back, "Hurry up, we want to see too."

Morgan resisted the urge to tell the Ravenclaw to stop acting like such a twat and instead smiled up at Dumbledore, stepping away from the bowl.

"What did you see, Miss Hume?" He asked soothingly.

Morgan grinned, "A black fox."

"A really useful form, if I do say so myself," Dumbledore nodded in approval. "I do hope you will consider Animagus Transfiguration."

"I will," Morgan promised before returning to her seat. She eyed Violetta, "What was your form?"

Fanding gave a small shrug, "Lynx."

Morgan didn't even know what that was.

---

Later that evening, while everyone else was at dinner, Morgan was in the library again, pouring over her spell books. She vaguely registered that Tom Riddle was also there, bent over a thick book with a piece of parchment and a quill. She almost considered going over to him. Part of her told her to forget it, and that he was probably doing homework, while another part of her urged her on, in case he was looking for the Founders Necklace.

Eventually, with her mission in mind, Morgan made her way over to Riddle's table. "Hey Riddle," she greeted simply. She leaned over his back, trying to sneak a peek at what he was reading when he slammed the book shut roughly.

"What do you want Hume?"

"A bit touchy, aren't we Riddle?"

"You're the one that said we were not going to pretend to be pleasant to one another." Riddle leaned back in his chair and Morgan walked around to the other side of the table.

"Yes, well," She once again tried to look at the book he was reading, "That was before I needed help with Defense Against the Dark Arts." She randomly ripped out a piece of parchment from her bag and slid it across the lacquered wooden table.

Tom Riddle raised an elegant eyebrow before he reached for the paper. His dark eyes skimmed over its surface while his hands simultaneously pushed the thick book he was reading out of the way. Morgan frowned.

"This is the Charms essay prompt." He said silkily. "Not Defense Against the Dark Arts work." Tom leaned back in his chair then, appraising her with his eyes. "Were you lying to me again, Miss Hume?"

Morgan didn't even bother to try and deny it, "Yeah." She grabbed the paper back and gave Tom a smirk. "Thanks for your help anyways, by the way, what was that book you were reading?"

She could have sworn she saw Tom's thin lips shift upwards in amusement, "Now, now, no need to be nosy Miss Hume."

Morgan stood up then, "I suppose not." She pulled up the sleeve of her right arm and feigned looking at a watch. "Wow, would you check out that time! I must run. Be seeing you, Tom Riddle."

"Good day, Leah Hume."

As soon as she exited the library, Tom walked over to the table Leah had previously occupied and suspiciously glanced over the books she had been searching through all day. Concealing charms? Interesting.

---

Morgan decided to make a quick stop to dump her rented spell books in the Room of Requirement. Tomorrow, she decided, she would go in there at lunch to practice the charms. It was too risky to do so anywhere else. For the time being, she went back to her dorm and hastily dressed down. She had a bad feeling about tomorrow.

---

The next day began with double Potions for Morgan, and she tiredly shuffled the whole three feet from her common room to the classroom thirty-seconds before Slughorn began his introductory speech.

She had wisely decided to sleep through breakfast, knowing that she could stop by the kitchens later and pick up a sandwich.

"Miss Hume, what a pleasure!" Slughorn chortled loudly. There were far fewer students in his class now, and Morgan realized it was because many people did not pass the Potions O.W.L. testing. She only recognized Tom Riddle, Avery, Fanding, and Kayden Macmillan who was chatting with a Ravenclaw girl.

"Morning sir," Morgan chanted back, plopping down in a seat by Violetta. She leaned back in her chair and her eyes rolled to the ceiling lazily.

If Slughorn was bothered by her behavior, he didn't show it. Instead he continued speaking, "Now, for today I want you students to correctly brew a Draught of Living Death."

Morgan almost laughed out loud, Slughorn had obviously deviated very little from his teaching plans, because in her own sixth year that was the first potion they were expected to brew.

Slughorn set his students off then, telling them they had a short amount of time to do what was expected of them. Most students set off at a breakneck pace, while Morgan tiredly gathered her ingredients. She took her time following the instructions to the potion, altering the directions every so often, remembering that in her fifth year she had been warned by Harry to not try and cut the sopophorous beans, but instead to squish them. She did so, and finished the potion rather easily.

Tom Riddle, as she was learning, was something akin to a genius, for he had finished way before her and anyone else. Violetta had followed Morgan's steady pace, and even though their potions were completed long after Riddle's, most of the other students were still having trouble.

"Well! Might I say, Miss Hume and Miss Fanding those are two wonderfully brewed potions!" Slughorn's mustache moved floppily with his excited speech. "Very wonderful indeed, not as good as Tom's though, but good enough!" His large eyes sparkled then, "Miss Fanding, as you are already aware I have these little gatherings every once and awhile, the students have dubbed it the Slug Club—" He smiled fondly, "—And I was wondering if you would perhaps like to attend this year. You as well, Miss Hume!"

Morgan flushed over her cauldron. She remembered Ginny's account of the rather crowded party that Slughorn had, and it didn't sound too promising.

"Of course, sir," Violetta answered for the both of them. "We would love to attend."

Slughorn chortled happily, "Marvelous, absolutely marvelous! Our first get-together is a month from now, on October second. I'm having a large party to celebrate another great year at Hogwarts!"

Their professor waddled on his way and Morgan glared unhappily at Violetta, "Did you really have to do that?"

A small smile chiseled itself into Fanding's features, "Yes, I wasn't going to go alone, now was I?"

---

With a sandwich clamped around her mouth an hour later, Slughorn's little party was long forgotten. The Metamorphmagus witch (who was pleased to say keeping her hair one solid color was becoming rather easy) was wandering down the halls on her way to her Care of Magical Creatures class.

The sound of books falling interrupted the witch's journey though, and she turned around a corner to see a tall group of Slytherin boys pushing around a first year Gryffindor.

"Where ya going little lion? Not so tough without your older brother, huh Darley?" The leader of the Slytherins thrust one arm out and pushed the small boy into the wall. The Gryffindor let out a yelp.

Morgan had seen enough, she put the rest of her sandwich in her pocket and started down the hall, "Oi! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The boys froze, squinting down the hallway. They sneered when the recognized her. "If it isn't the traitor," they hissed darkly. Morgan realized they were seventh years.

"Shove off, assholes," Morgan snapped, she reached the group of boys then, and to the Gryffindor's surprise, put a comforting arm around his shoulder. "Come on Darley, I'll take ya to your next class."

The Slytherins jeered at her unpleasantly, though made no move to stop her from pulling the first year along. As soon as the boys had disappeared from their sight, Morgan turned to the boy and grinned slightly, "Don't mind them, bunch of tossheads they are."

Darley sniffled, "But you're a Slytherin too." He pointed out.

"Not all Slytherins are bad, just most of them." Morgan said cheerily. Darley smiled.

"I'm going to Transfiguration, I think I can find my way from here."

"Naw, it's cool, I'll walk you there, besides, I love Professor Dumbledore." Morgan pulled the eleven year old up to the second floor where the old wizard preferred to have his younger classes.

She stopped outside the door, they were ten minutes late. Darley knocked apprehensively.

Morgan broke out in a large grin when Dumbledore pulled open the classroom door. His eyes twinkled in surprise when he noticed Morgan there, though smiled softly at Darley. "Now what happened here, Miss Hume?"

"Ah, some Slytherin jerks were giving Darley a hard time, so I told them to shove off and decided to escort him to your class. Sorry he's late."

Dumbledore smiled again, "I suppose that's alright, hurry in now, William, and find a seat." William Darley scuttled past the professor and Dumbledore turned back to Morgan, "Thank you Leah."

Morgan shrugged and pulled out the other half of her sandwich, "It was my pleasure sir," She smiled, "Now I really gotta go or else Kettleburn will kill me. I'm late as it is." She took a bite out of her sandwich.

Dumbledore waved his wand and conjured a note out of thin air, "Give this to _Professor_ Kettleburn, and I assure you, nothing bad will happen."

Morgan gave her favorite professor another grin before leaving.

---

Dumbledore had been right, after showing Kettleburn the note the lively man chortled heartily and shoved her towards the rest of his students. Morgan recognized Charlus Potter among the bunch, and quickly stood beside him. The Gryffindor gave her a large smile while Kayden Macmillan patted her on the back.

"Heard some other Slytherin seventh years cursing about how you helped out William Darley," Kayden whispered happily. "Good job mate."

Morgan shrugged, "Yeah I kno—" She paused, studying the form of a tall cloaked figure standing beside Kettleburn. _Hagrid!?!_

"Right, well we're gunna start this year off lookin' at Thestrals! Hagrid, my boy, bring one over! Now, don't be worried if you can't seem em' but these are the beauties that pull your carriages to the castle. Now, raise your hand and tell me why some people can seem em' and why others cannot!"

Morgan stared in blank shock at Hagrid before turning to Charlus, "Who's that?" She whispered.

The Gryffindor Potter looked at Hagrid, "That Rubeus Hagrid. He got expelled last year because supposedly he kept a pet Acromantula that killed Mrytle, another student. Tom Riddle told the Headmaster, but Kayden and I believe it's a lie. Hagrid would never keep anything that would harm anyone. Riddle's just got a stick shove up his ass."

Morgan looked at the fifteen year old Hagrid then, frowning unhappily. She would have to dig deeper into the situation. So Tom Riddle turned him in? Well, then there would certainly be some mention of it in that file Snape provided her with.

Later that night, instead of going back to her dorm, Morgan collected all of her things and brought them to the Room of Requirement, she stayed until morning testing out concealing charms and reading up on Tom Riddle. The habit of doing so, though she didn't know at the time, was going to develop into an unhealthy one.


	9. Chapter Eight

**A/N: **Here's where the plot picks up! Its the extra special chapter for you guys, just because I'll be gone for a week(: Be sure to leave me lots of reviews so that I'll update loads more when I get back!! Thanks again to all my reviewers, you really make my day, and to anyone else who has put the story on their Alert/Fave. See you guys in a week!

Disclaimer: My name is not J.K. Rowling. It is Meghan. Therefore, I do not own Harry Potter(:

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**Chapter Eight: Save the Last Dance**

By the end of her first month at Hogwarts, many people were forced to acknowledge the fact that Leah Hume was odd.

Most of her professors disapproved of her, from the way she walked to the way she just couldn't keep her mouth shut. What baffled the Hogwarts staff more than anything, though, was the way she tended to separate herself from her own house. She never sat next to any of her dorm mates or fellow Slytherins. Instead, she would sit in the back of the classroom, usually leaning backwards in her chair and scanning the contents of one library book or another.

When asked a question, the young woman would usually give a ridiculous answer. Professor Bragidly, the Charms teacher, had a particularly hard time with the new student. When asked about the correct incantation for the Fidelius charm the Slytherin looked up from whatever book she was reading and wrinkled her nose before saying, "27?"

Needless to say, Bragidly wasn't pleased. Just like many of the other teachers. The problem was that when it came to homework, Leah Hume did amazingly. She wrote all her essays with practiced care and passed all the tests with flying colors. After conversing with the Headmaster about the situation, it was finally determined that Leah was just an abnormally advanced student with a unique work ethic.

Professor Dumbledore appeared to be the only teacher that could hold the witch's attention. In his Transfiguration classes Leah Hume sat near the front, listening intently to the material being covered. She was often found speaking with the professor after class, conversing with him about one thing or another.

The only other teachers that tolerated Leah was Slughorn and Kettleburn. It had been discovered that Miss Hume was quite the natural at brewing potions, which could be the reason as the why the burly man tolerated her attitude and distant behavior in his class. Professor Kettleburn seemed to have it easy, though, for Miss Hume always participated diligently in his class, most times sitting with Potter and Macmillan. Almost everyday after class he would see her sneak up behind his understudy, Hagrid, and try to engage the boy in a conversation. Kettleburn secretly cheered on her efforts.

Outside of the classroom, however, Leah Hume was rarely seen. Every once and awhile she would be spotted in the library, but never at any meals. Most assumed that the young witch simply went back to her dorm, and Lucretia Black never said a word to dissuade others from believing such. In all honesty, Hume's roommates rarely spied the witch coming back into the dorm, and preferred to keep that fact silent. They did not wish to parade the fact that the new addition to their house was quite the oddity.

---

Morgan Caldwell rubbed her left forearm irritably, peeling back the sleeve of her shirt to glare at the Dark Mark. She sat on the floor of the Room of Requirement, five books spread around her. She had tried every concealing charm known in Hogwarts, and still the mark showed strikingly black against her white skin. It was as if it didn't want to be hidden.

She leaned back against one of the couches in the room and sighed unhappily. She had been going through all the books in the Hogwarts library for a month and she still had no success. The only thing she accomplished was causing the skin surrounding the mark to flare up.

All the work was necessary though, because despite the long-sleeved blouses she was forced to wear, the black tattoo had almost been spotted three more times. And after looking up the meaning of the Dark Mark, Morgan realized if it was discovered she would be put in a very compromising position. The mark was representative of everything forbidden and dark, it was a symbol of evil magic.

"This sucks." She kicked away a few of her books and studied the room around her. She had the Room of Requirement conjure up an almost exact replica of the D.A. headquarters, and when she was feeling lonely (which she often felt) Morgan would pretend that Neville and Seamus and the other members of were there with her, giving her advice. It was beyond pathetic, but it helped her pass the time.

Her fellow Slytherins all pretty much loathed her. Especially Black and co., though it never bothered her before and certainly wasn't going to now.

Almost all of her classes bored her. She had already learned the material the teacher's were covering. The only classes she really enjoyed were Transfiguration, Potions, and Care of Magical Creatures. She often tried to befriend the half-giant Hagrid after class, though he was rather talented at slipping away. After skimming through the file Snape had supplied her about Voldemort, she couldn't help but try and speak with him. She felt bad for the expelled student and how he was wrongly accused and convicted.

Glancing at the small clock settled over the fireplace Morgan groaned. It was time for the first official Slug Club gathering. From what she had gathered, Slughorn made a point to have at least one giant get-together every semester, one in which talented people outside of Hogwarts were invited to.

Standing up and stretching Morgan studied her appearance in the mirror. Due to her sleepless nights practicing charms and reading, large circles laid even more prominently under her eyes, and because she rarely found time to go down to the kitchens, she was looking as thin as ever.

She wasn't wearing anything for a party, either. It was Saturday and she was dressed in clothes that she would normally wear in the 90's. She knew that the loose jeans she wore would be completely unacceptable, as were the Converse shoes donning her feet. Grumbling in annoyance, she quickly pulled out her wand and concentrated on changing her jeans to a suitable skirt. After almost five minutes of playing with a few spells, she had managed to configure a simple black skirt that flowed a little above her knees. It was a tad bit too short, but she honestly didn't care. Next came the shoes. It took her twice as long to do that.

When she had transfigured her shoes and pants, Morgan checked the clock, only to see that she was already ten minutes late. The simple black button-down shirt would have to do, she figured. And so she hastily exited the Room of Requirement and ran down to the dungeons.

"Leah! My dear! I was starting to think you wouldn't make it!" A burly and smiling form of Horace Slughorn greeted her, a cocktail glass in hand. "And—oh dear, what is it that you are wearing?"

Morgan frowned, confused, before looking down at her shirt. "Er…clothes?"

Slughorn chuckled happily, "Well I suppose what they say about geniuses are true then! They can be quite odd. But do come in!" A fat hand waved her in through the door and Morgan began to understand why her professor had been so shocked at her attire.

Everyone else at the party was dressed extravagantly. The boys all had on neat suits and the girls wore dresses that high-lighted their slim figures. Morgan stuck out like a sore thumb, and as soon as she had fully entered the room she found most people staring at her.

"Hello Hume," Morgan turned to see Violetta Fanding walking to her. The petite witch had dressed up in a lavender gown that trailed to her heeled feet. "I was beginning to wonder if you were going to attend at all."

Morgan couldn't help but be grateful for the fact that Violetta had not called her out on her clothing. It was just one of the things that she had come to expect out of her fellow Slytherin. Fanding was the closest thing to a friend she had. "I wouldn't dream of it," She grinned. "I don't believe I got the memo about the dressing up though."

"Maybe if you paid attention and decided to sleep in our dorm every now and then I would have been able to inform you."

Morgan rubbed the back of her head sheepishly. "Yeah…I suppose it is my fault."

Violetta simply nodded, though no more words were exchanged.

"Leah, you look…well, you could have at least tried to dress nicely, couldn't you have?"

Morgan winced at the sound of Isabella Marston's voice. The other Slytherin was strutting towards her, a dark green gown swaying with her feet. She was hanging off the arm of Tom Riddle, who eyed Morgan's choice of clothing with an amused smirk.

"I had more important things to do Marston," Morgan answered stiffly, once again rubbing her left forearm. "And I—"

"If it isn't little Miss Hume!" Braxton Caldwell appeared by Violetta's side, a grin lighting up his entire face. "I must admit it's been a long time since I've spoken with you!"

Morgan grinned earnestly, in all her trouble with the Dark Mark she had forgotten about her could-be ancestor. "It has been," she agreed. "Though you being a seventh year might have a lot to do with it."

"Nonsense!" He wagged a finger at her, "You haven't been coming down to the Great Hall at all! Where do you run off to? Are you like Mr. Riddle here? Going to the library?"

Morgan cast a sidelong glance at mini-V who was studying Braxton with dark eyes, apparently not appreciating the hidden insult. "Well, you know, I've been having trouble keeping up with the schoolwork," She lied.

"Well I can always tutor you!" Braxton tossed her a suggestive grin.

Morgan tried to hold a fit of laughter at bay, "Ah…no that's alright. Anyways, I was just about to leave, you know."

"I don't think so," Braxton grabbed her arm gently; "Let me treat you to a dance."

Morgan scowled. "I don't dance."

"Sure you do!"

"I surely don't Caldwell." She answered back, just as adamantly.

Isabella smiled, "Awh, go on Leah, Caldwell will take good care of you. I do believe he has had his eye on you ever since he saw you in the Great Hall."

Braxton straightened his shoulders, "Oh, don't go telling my secret Miss Marston," he smiled hugely again. "Now, Leah, I insist."

Morgan wanted to dig a hole and go hide. "Absolutely not Caldwell," She jerked her arm away from Braxton and shot him a withering glare.

"Come now, Caldwell, dance with me," Violetta gracefully set her drink down on a table and stepped forward on Morgan's behalf

Braxton studied the blond beauty before smirking. "Well, my lady, if you insist…"

"I do." Violetta spun away with Caldwell, trailing to the middle of the dance floor where they began the waltz.

"Thank god," Morgan groaned. "This was such a bad idea." She sank into a nearby chair, noticing that Tom and Isabella had disappeared somewhere. Or at least, that was what she thought…

"You must love telling lies, Hume." Tom's voice came from behind her, and she craned her neck to see the pale Slytherin standing to her left. "You are most definitely not having trouble with your schoolwork."

"Yeah, you're right. It's pretty easy." Morgan answered offhandedly.

Riddle pulled a chair up next to hers. "Which leads me to the question: why are you going to the library during your free periods?"

"Which leads me to the question: why do you care?"

Tom folded his hands in his lap and Morgan couldn't help but notice how handsome he looked. "Concealing charms with the strength that you have been studying are rarely a good sign."

Morgan gaped at Riddle, "You've been spying on me?"

"No, merely observing the books that you have checked out, Hume. I've noticed you in the library every night during dinner and every afternoon during lunch. I was curious."

"I liked it better when we ignored each other." Morgan said darkly, crossing her arms over her chest.

"There's no need to act like a pouting child."

Morgan wrinkled her nose, "Go find your girlfriend, Riddle, and bother her."

A look of disgust passed through mini-V's eyes so fast that Morgan almost missed it. "Isabella is not my significant other. She merely asked me to escort her to the party and I—"

"Didn't want to soil your reputation by turning the poor girl down?" Morgan supplied. "After all, how would it look if perfect and selfless Tom Riddle turned down a simple date to a party?" She snorted angrily. "Poor orphaned Riddle, so charming and ambitious; he would never do such a thing! I'm sure Hagrid would disagree though!"

All of a sudden tension filled the air and Morgan saw Tom clench his fists together. When she moved her gaze up to his face, she saw his eyes burning straight through her. "Now how would you know that?" He sneered, turning his whole body towards her.

Morgan gulped, but didn't say anything.

"Has the confused half-giant been telling you stories, Leah?" Her first name rolled off his tongue darkly and he leaned towards her.

Silent alarms screamed in her head for her to get away, though she had flipped through Tom's file she couldn't remember if he was a skilled Legilimens or not. She jumped from her seat and tried to back away from Riddle, but he was on his feet just as fast. She tried to scurry away when a pale hand shot out and gripped her arm.

It was nothing like the gentle way Braxton had grabbed her. No, Tom's hold was vice-like and threatening. A quick tug on her arm forced her to spin towards mini-V again. His face was composed in a lazy and charming smile. "Please dance with me, Miss Hume."

Morgan averted her eyes and tried to rip her arm from Riddle, "No," she hissed vehemently. "I think I'd rather not."

"Thank you Miss Hume," Tom's grip tightened even more as he pulled her out to the dance floor. A fast moving song had come on and Morgan whimpered unhappily.

"I bruise easily," she quipped. "And I really _can't_ dance!" But her body was dragged straight into Riddle's regardless. "Son of a bitch, Riddle, I can't dance! Oh god, I'm gunna _trip_!" All thoughts of Legilimency were wiped from her mind as she closed her eyes shut. Horribly embarrassing memories of the Hogwarts Yule Ball flashed before her closed lids: Getting asked to dance by Seamus, tripping, knocking him and five other people down. Oh god, that was terrible!

Before she could stop herself, Morgan's free hand was digging into Tom's robes tightly. "Don't trip, don't trip, don't trip," she whispered the words to herself nervously.

"Get a grip Hume." Tom growled out, it felt like her hand was breaking in his hold.

Taking deep breaths, Morgan meekly released her hand from Tom's suit and let it hover uncertainly between them, "Oh hell." The song changed then and she blushed furiously, realizing that she had been freaking out for a whole of three minutes.

"Well, it was nice dancing with you Riddle, but now I have to go kill myself, thanks." She tried to pull away then, wanting desperately to end her embarrassment, especially when she saw Isabella eyeing her angrily from the side of the dance floor. "On second thought, I think Marston is going to kill me anyways…"

Tom didn't release her; instead both his hands went to her waist where he gripped her just as tightly, "I'm tired of your games, Hume, no more distractions." Morgan didn't move. "Put. Your. Hands. Around. My. Neck." Each word was articulated with a dangerous lit. Morgan figured Riddle was finally losing it.

"Well, okay, if it's really necessary." She lifted her arms so that the encircled Tom's neck awkwardly. Her body began trembling with humility.

Tom noticed her shaking in his hands and smirked lowly, "I'm not going to hurt you anymore, Hume, if only you would answer my simple questions."

Morgan glared at his hard chest, "Hurt me? I'm not _hurt_ you asshole! I'm embarrassed! Oh god, I hate dancing! I'll never live this down! I'll never be able to face anyone—"

"Look at me," Riddle said furiously. Morgan complied stiffly, not letting her glare loose its intenseness. Tom's mouth was pulled downwards in a frown and his pale face was flushed with anger. "Is that seriously what this is about, Hume?"

"Well, uh, yes," Morgan flexed her fingers around Tom's neck worriedly. "I've had some really bad times dancing. I don't like it." She shook her head, brown hair splaying around her.

Tom almost looked shocked, his eyes widening. "Leah, you are the strangest girl I have ever met!" He scowled and loosened his grip on her waist, though it was still less than comfortable.

Morgan stood on her tip-toes, trying to examine the arm that Tom had previously gripped, "I bet you left me with a bruise though. You probably left a few on my hips too, asshole."

Tom led them in a small circle, having no problem keeping up with the dance. "Your language is atrocious."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm a disgrace to the noble house of Slytherin, spare me the speech." Morgan looked away to see Isabella fretfully talking to Lucretia. "Oh dear. I think they're planning my murder."

Tom turned to look at his date, "Not my problem," he murmured. He lifted one hand away from her waist and gripped her chin, forcefully moving her face to his own. "Now for my questions."

Morgan began to panic again, though this time for much more sensible reason.

"What has Hagrid been telling you, Leah?" Tom's dark eyes stared into her blue orbs.

_'Don't think, don't think, think about nothing. You have nothing in your head! Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb. Mary had a little lamb…'_

A frustrated frown found its way upon Tom's face. "Leah," He whispered warningly. "I don't want to have to hurt you…"

Morgan inwardly snorted, _'Bullshit,'_

"But if need be—"

"Miss Hume?" A new voice interrupted Morgan's thoughts and she suddenly found Tom's hand darting away from her face and back to her waist again, pulling her into his body sharply.

"Can we help you?" Tom asked calmly.

"Hello Riddle," the boy greeted Tom simply. "I was going to ask Miss Hume to dance."

"I'm afraid that we're a bit busy now, Potter, though as soon as we are done I'll send her your way."

Morgan sneered in disgust at the way he spoke about her, as if she was a possession. "Actually, _Riddle_, I would love to dance with Potter." She retracted her hands from Tom's neck and placed them against his chest where she discreetly tried to push him away.

Tom glared at her, his eyes black and furious. His lips were pursed in a thin line, and his grip on her hips increased. "Alright, _Hume_," Riddle said back softly. "Just be sure to save me the last dance."

His hands finally fell away from her waist and Morgan stepped away from him easily. She grinned at her savior, Charlus Potter.

Charlus gave her a small smile, his black hair sticking up untidily. "Hello Leah," He said loudly, "I don't really want to dance." The last part was whispered conspiratorially.

Morgan let out a huge sigh of relief. "Thank god. I hate dancing." She took his offered arm and he led her off the dance floor and to the older occupants of the dungeon.

"Was Tom Riddle hurting you?" Charlus asked a bit sharply, anger outlining his features. "It looked like it was getting very…uncomfortable."

"That's exactly the word I would use," Morgan agreed. "But don't worry, it's alright. I was just aggravating him."

Charlus laughed, "I really don't know why you weren't in Gryffindor. You don't get along with any of those snakes."

"Nope," Morgan pulled her arm back from Potter and stuck her hands in her skirt pocket. "Well, I'm gunna be leaving, I never even wanted to come to this stupid party."

Charlus gave her a mischievous smile, "Macmillan and I have something planned for the end of the party, if you wish to stay, I assure you it will be worth your wild."

Morgan shook her head, not daring to look back at Tom Riddle, "No, I really should go now, I have some studying to do."

"It's Saturday!" Potter sounded exasperated. "Even McGonagall isn't studying."

Morgan smiled at the mention of the Head-Girl and her future Transfiguration teacher, "Well Minerva is not falling behind on her DADA essay," She totted. "I'll see you later Potter." She waved before expertly weaving her way between the crowds of people. She had to neatly dodge Slughorn, who was looking around the room to introduce her to a pair of vampires, and sidled out the dungeon door.

She was very much so aware of Tom Riddle glaring at her from the other side of the room.

As soon as she escaped the party, she practically ran to the Room of Requirement, quickly entering her preferred room and collapsing on the couch. She was screwed. Terribly screwed. All because she let slip a few little words! Before Tom never bothered her, sure he appeared curious as to what she was doing with concealing charms, but she knew that within a week he would have forgotten her odd behavior. But now…

_"Be sure to save me the last dance."_

Morgan had no doubt she would be running into Riddle a lot more often. And it would not be pleasant.

His interest in her would make it almost impossible to search for texts on the Founders Necklace undetected…but on the plus side…

Morgan rolled up the sleeve of her right arm, glancing at the bruises darkening the skin there. At least now she had a reason to break his nose.


	10. Chapter Nine

**A/N: **First off, I want to say sorry for the fact that this update is three days late. My vacation got extended and there was no internet access, haha. Anyways, this one is EXTREMELY long, and I know some of you hate that, so I'm sorry, but I really didn't want to cut it off(: Anyways, slight warning, there is some angst in here (towards the end) but it needed to happen. And also, because I feel like I should warn you, there is some more severe swearing. Anyways! I hope you all enjoy!

I would also like the time to thank everyone who has reviewed: **CrackedLips** (You're reviews are always so well thought out and amazing!), **Diina, Samara Moon, shadowontherun, xxthethieflordxx, IzzyoftehRandomanius, Angelique Aurealis, FYInichole, Ducky-Rawr-Foxears, Clo ()** (My first anonymous reviewer, thanks!), **BEN-Beyond the Elusive Nomads-**, and **Clearly Epic** who clearly shares my sense of humor! Also, I want to thank the people that have taken the time to Fave/Alert this story! THANKS GUYS!

Disclaimer: I am so tired right now, I can't even type one out.

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**Chapter Nine: Shaky Hands**

Morgan was a very oblivious person. It was a fact justified Sunday morning, the day after Slughorn's party. The young witch woke up early, dressing in her school robes and wandering down to the Great Hall for breakfast. Like always, her shoulders were slumped forward and her hands were buried in her pockets. Her dark brown hair lay unkempt on her head and her blue eyes were locked on the stone floor in deep thought.

Upon looking through a very thick and time-consuming book, Morgan found that when something of a dark nature needed to be hidden, potions were better suited to get the job done. Concealing spells covered up what needed to be hidden with an illusion. Due to the dark magic confined in her mark, illusions were dispelled. Potions, though, would physically alter the skin on her arm, and in theory, could not be counteracted by other charms. Morgan found a very specific reference to a potion that would solve her problems and she was eager to get started brewing it.

Promising herself that she would head to library after eating some pancakes, she pushed open the Great Hall doors. As she walked the length of the Slytherin table she didn't notice the shocked glances she received.

She walked right past Lucretia Black and co., ignoring their stifling glares and the congregation of boys that sat neatly beside them. Morgan noted, however, that Tom Riddle was indeed seated next to Isabella Marston, despite his protests of not being involved with her.

Violetta gave her a curt nod that she returned with a companionable smile before pacing down to the Slytherin first years. Lyra's eyes went wide with surprise when Morgan sat down across from her.

"Hello my dear friend. How are you this fine morning?" Morgan grinned openly and reached for a piece of toast, in a particularly good mood.

"What hole did you climb out of," Lyra hissed back, her gaze combing over Morgan's features. "You look terrible."

"Oh Lyra, you're making me blush," Morgan's cheery tone was not to be disheartened and she bit down on her toast with relish. She didn't doubt that she looked bad—staying up all night pouring over books tended to have that affect on people—but just like always, her mind was too bothered with other matters to care.

"Where have you been? You've left me alone for a month." Lyra pushed away her golden plate and glanced over her Charms homework. With a quill poised in her hand she appeared torn between continuing her assignment and speaking to her older friend.

"Terribly sorry about that," And Morgan meant it. It wasn't hard to tell that Lyra wasn't exactly popular in their house: she was unusual, and as a Slytherin automatically unapproachable by the other houses.

"Just…don't do it again, okay? I know we might not be friends…exactly…but—"

"What gave you that impression?" Morgan looked slightly alarmed, her eyes wide and her mouth popping open, which really was an unattractive picture, considering the toast she had mashed in there.

Lyra gave a little squeal of disgust, "Leah, seriously! Close your mouth!" The smile fighting its way onto her face was unmistakable.

Morgan grinned, poking out her tongue and leaning over the table towards Lyra, "Munahkln!"

Suddenly, a hand slammed onto Morgan's back, causing her to sputter out the half-chewed toast in her mouth. The food flew into Lyra's face and hair.

"LEAH!" Lyra seemed too shocked to say much else, embarrassment turning her cheeks a dark red color.

"Hello there Leah!" While Morgan was left staring openmouthed at Lyra, Charlus Potter slid onto the bench. On her other free side, Kayden Macmillan sidled up to her too, both Gryffindor's looking cheery.

Morgan closed her mouth. Then opened it again. Then blinked.

"So…Er…about that weather…" Morgan smiled weakly and wiped the excess toast from her chin.

Apparently just noticing the mess they created, Charlus coughed nervously, his natural instincts going against apologizing or helping a Slytherin, "Oh, sorry about that." He hesitated before pulling out his wand and waving it. Instantly, the chewed food coating Lyra's face disappeared.

Lyra's surprise didn't go away as quickly though. She stared at the two Gryffindor's disbelievingly, and for the first time in her life, Morgan took the time to notice the people around her.

Every other student in Hogwarts was gazing at the Slytherin table in shock, discreetly pointing at Morgan and her friends. It annoyed her.

"Hello Kayden and Charlus," she said with a firm glare in Lyra's direction. The first year witch quickly closed her mouth. "What can I do for _you _this fine morning?"

Potter smiled, grateful to have something to talk about, "Well, Miss Hume, Kayden and I noticed that for the first time in weeks, you have decided to grace us with your presence at breakfast."

"And we figured their must be _some_ sort of occasion that has prompted this sudden change," Kayden continued happily.

"And we wish to inquire as to what occasion it is that has made us so lucky." Charlus finished zealously.

Morgan realized they were making fun of her. "I try to please at least one person a day, and today just happens to be your day Charlus Potter."

"I don't know whether or not I should be insulted," Kayden threw in, smiling.

Morgan playfully shoved his shoulder, "Who are you again?"

"I am so confused," Lyra admitted at last, her elbows on the table and her head balanced on top of her hands. "What is going on here?"

"It might come as quite the shock," Kayden said seriously. "But we're actually friends of Leah."

"I mean, who knew she had friends!" Charlus finished chuckling. Morgan thought that, in a strange way, Charlus and Kayden were like Fred and George Weasley: they almost always finished each others sentences and had an odd knack for getting into trouble. Hanging around the two made her feel more at home than she had felt in a long time.

Lyra, however, looked as if their company was less than desired. "Okay. Well, I'm just going to go now. Bye Leah." The short witch jumped up from her seat and gathered her things before stalking out of the hall at a brisk pace.

Morgan frowned, "You scared her! Now I'm stuck with you two, all alone."

"Now I am sure that was meant to be an insult," Kayden said.

"And we wouldn't be scaring away all these snakes if you just sat with us at the Gryffindor table. Besides, there's someone we want you to meet over there." Charlus, disregarding the openly hostile glares he received, reached over and took a muffin from a nearby platter.

"Well I'm not moving," Morgan warned them. "I am comfy right here on this bench. Bring them over." She picked up a new piece of toast and stuffed it in her mouth. "Especially now that I have this nice empty seat across from me that they can occupy."

Charlus and Kayden exchanged glances before shrugging. "Alright, we'll bring him. Save our seats and make sure some snake doesn't go and poison my muffin," Charlus said easily, placing his pastry on an empty plate in front of him.

The two left then, leaving Morgan to deal with the dark glares her peers generously took the time shoot at her. She stole a glance towards Tom Riddle, only to find him pleasantly eating a bagel, his thin lips moving fast as he conversed with his Malfoy lackey.

She wouldn't deny that she was worried about how he would act towards her. They definitely didn't leave off on good terms, and she was sure he was furious with her. But he didn't show it at all. No, instead he carried on as if she weren't there. Though Morgan found a small pleasure in the fact that he had to keep politely moving his hand away from Isabella's.

Lucretia was more open with her hate. She met Morgan's eyes and her face hardened, though a small, tight smile appeared on her delicate lips. The gesture carried a clear enough message: "I'm smiling at you now, but I secretly hope you get hit by a truck."

Morgan smiled back happily, even going as far as to wave enthusiastically to the woman.

"Leah, may I introduce you to James Darley!" Charlus was standing across the table from her, holding onto an arm of a tall boy while Kayden gripped the other.

James was tall and very well built, with muscles that seemed ready to burst under his white shirt. He must have been at least six feet tall with a very intimidating scar carved into his cheek. His eyes were a dark green and his hair was cropped short. All in all, he was a very handsome man, who looked as if he had forgotten the reason as to why he was there.

"This is her?" His voice was low and judgmental as he took in Morgan's stature.

Annoyance bubbled up in Morgan. It was like she didn't meet some unknown standard he measured her up against. It reminded her wholly of the Father Miller in her orphanage, who always believed that what she did was never good enough, and who wasn't afraid to voice his thoughts.

An angry glare settled into her eyes, and she stared dispassionately at the giant, "What the hell do you want?"

James was startled and Kayden started laughing, falling down onto the bench and dragging his friends down with him. "Told you she was something," He said appreciatively.

Charlus reached across the table and stole back his muffin, "A real lion among the snakes," He agreed. "She helped your little brother out."

Morgan stared down at her lap in thought, her hair falling over her eyes and her hands working around themselves unconsciously. After a second, her head flew up and she snapped her fingers, "William Darley!" She said amazingly, "You're his brother? The seventh year?"

James seemed unsure of where he should place his hands, or of how he should sit, really. He seemed so uncomfortable. "Yes."

Morgan's eyes widened, "But he's so…tiny…" She trailed off, once again noting how enormous James was.

Charlus nodded, knowingly, "James here is a real snake hater, helps us give the Slytherins hell whenever we can. But because of that, his brother became a target; I guess you would say, since he's so little and only a first year."

"Uh, right. Okay then." Morgan said.

"So he wanted to thank you for helping out little William when he wasn't able to." Kayden replied, shouldering James sharply. "Right?"

"…Right." James said after a long moment. "Thanks."

Morgan realized that since meeting him, James Darley had said a total of six words. "Your command of the English language amazes me."

James glared in response, "Maybe I just don't trust snakes."

Sorry, twelve words.

"Join the club," Morgan snorted, taking the time to frown at Lucretia.

"Now, now, we want you two to become best friends," Kayden chided cheerfully. "That way it won't be awkward when you watch us play Quidditch today, Leah."

Morgan pushed away her empty plate and sipped her orange juice. "Quidditch? Today? Gee guys, thanks for telling me in advanced."

"Yes well, we didn't want there to be any schedule conflicts," Charlus said jokingly. "Being our friend means watching us play on Sundays."

"I don't think I want to be your friend…"

"Oh Charlus, it's almost as if she thinks she has a choice in the matter," Kayden remarked.

Morgan let loose a few chuckles, "Your witty comments know no bounds."

Charlus wrinkled his nose, "Of course not. Now let's go out to the pitch so that we get there before anyone else does."

Potter and Macmillan pulled James up from his seat and Morgan willingly followed them out of the hall.

---

Morgan really wished she had the time to go outside more often. The fresh air did wonders for her senses, and even though the sun seemed to burn through her pale skin, she enjoyed the weather.

She was perched on the floor of the Quidditch pitch, the tall stands inclosing her. Her back leaned against the base of the center hoop on the left side of the field. In the air above her, Charlus, Kayden, James, and some other boys were flying around. They were practicing evasive maneuvers and racing each other carelessly.

Morgan tried to look impressed, but really, they were just going so… _slow_! The brooms they rode upon were so laughable; she couldn't even begin to fathom what it would feel like to be stuck on one.

She rubbed her hands together and noticed James was very talented at blocking the fist-sized rocks that were thrown at him; she assumed him to be the Gryffindor keeper. Charlus and Kayden, on the other hand, seemed quite at home trying to pummel their friend with the rocks, so she had to guess they were the beaters.

The only other kids on the pitch that she associated with an inkling of talent were a small boy with dark hair and a wider kid covered in freckles. The small kid had to be a seeker while Freckle-Face, she assumed, was a chaser.

Even though she thought their brooms were going to unbelievably slow, she was jealous of the guys. She pretty much knew that girls weren't expected to know anything of Quidditch in the 40's, let alone how to ride a broom. The fact that she couldn't fly was a huge disappointment.

After a half-hour, Morgan watched as James pulled his broom down to the ground and landed beside her. His head was bleeding and he was cursing loudly.

Morgan didn't acknowledge him, even when he sat down next to her and wiped away the blood running down his neck. It wasn't hard to figure out that Charlus and Kayden were very good at what they did, and had managed to hit the taller Gryffindor with a large rock.

"Head's spinnin'" James muttered gruffly, as if he felt the need to justify his presence next to her. "Got hit with a rock."

"Yeah well, it was bound to happen sometime. Charlus and Kayden are very good at what they do." Morgan muttered without thinking.

"Good at what they do?" James asked, cautious suspicion in his voice.

Morgan almost sighed. If she wanted to try and fit in, she shouldn't continue the conversation with James, because it would just lead to her admitting her very uncommon interest in Quidditch. But, hell, she figured she already stuck out like a sore thumb, so why not?

"You know, they're chasers, right? And you're a keeper, I'm assuming." She raked her fingers through the growing grass, keeping her eyes trained on the students flying above her.

"You know about Quidditch?" James sounded skeptical and Morgan kept herself turned away from him.

"Uh, yeah. Lots of girls know about it and stuff up north." She lied.

"I think I'd like to go up there and see that one day," James answered thoughtfully. He had already pulled out his wand and used a nonverbal spell to heal his head wound.

"Yeah, sure, but I would wait until this war thing was over. It might put a damper on your vacationing plans, I guess."

James stared at her, deadpan, for a long while before shaking his head, "You are so odd." He paused. "I can't figure it out."

"There is nothing to figure out!" Morgan retorted, defensively. "I'm just as normal as any other person here—well, okay, that's a lie. But still!" She crossed her arms and glared at him then. "I'm tired of being judged by you today. It's annoying and it makes me uncomfortable."

James blinked before opening his mouth, as if to speak, before he closed it just as quickly. He repeated this action a few more times before saying: "Well what's your favorite position?"

"Position? In Quidditch?" Morgan looked at him, wanting to ask what the hell kind of question that was before replying. "My favorite to position is chaser, but I think seekers have the most important job on the field."

James snorted, "Keepers are the most important, hands down."

"If that doesn't sound egotistical I don't know what does…"

"Your insults are not really needed, nor welcomed."

"Yeah well, you're not really needed or welcomed, and yet here you are." Morgan pulled out a chunk of grass and flicked it towards the Jolly Green Giant. "Go away."

"It's a good thing I don't like to please people," James said, "Or else I might actually considering leaving."

"I can see why Charlus and Kayden were throwing rocks at you." Morgan snapped back. "They had the right idea, too. So tell me, what can I throw at you to make you leave me alone?"

James eyed her arms seriously, "You want to throw something at me? With what muscles?"

"You just don't know when to quit, do you?" Morgan demanded, before pushing herself to her feet.

"Not when it comes to snakes, no."

"So help me God, if I get called a snake _one_ more time…" Morgan pulled out her wand and pointed it at the larger boy's nose. Even when he was sitting down and Morgan was standing, he came up past her stomach.

"I just call it like I see it," James said, icily. He stood up stiffly and Morgan was forced to crane her neck back to meet his intense glare.

"You asked for it," Morgan muttered angrily, and before James could ask what she meant she began moving her wand. _"Avis!"_ A flock of birds burst forth, _"Oppugno!"_ The birds flew at the giant, angrily pecking and nipping at him.

"Leah! C'mon! ARE YOU SERIOUS!?" James grunted, swatting at the persistent birds unsuccessfully.

Morgan chuckled dryly, "Good birdies," she said, glancing up in the sky and noticing her argument with James had attracted the attention of the other Quidditch players. Without another word, she spun on her heel and strode from the pitch calmly.

---

Hours later, Morgan resurfaced from the library, tucking a copied piece of parchment into her bra happily. Her time spent pouring through the books had proved successful, and she had been able to copy down the concealing potion she had seen referenced earlier.

It surprised her how easy books with dark magic were to access now. She supposed it was because Voldemort didn't exist yet. Either way, she wasn't complaining. The ingredients she needed to get for the potion were extensive though, and she figured she would have to steal some from Slughorn's stores. That, or she could just ask him for some material, claiming that she was working on an extra project. She was pretty sure he would believe the excuse.

Pulling down on the hem of her skirt, Morgan bit down on her bottom lip in thought. A trip to the kitchens seemed in order, even though it was only ten minutes to curfew. She was hungry though, and in desperate need of sugar. The house-elves always seemed to have the Red Vine licorice she liked.

She stopped by the pear portrait and was rewarded with a foot of the candy, as the elves claimed that she was "nicest to the elvies" and needed some color in her "cheekies." The trip only helped increase the good mood she was in, and so, on her way to the dungeons (she had decided she would actually sleep in her dorm that night), she hadn't been paying much attention to her surroundings.

Which was why she didn't see Tom Riddle until she ran into him.

Her string of licorice fell from her mouth and she let out a wounded gasp, "Aw man, not the candy," She whined. She couldn't see anything, so she fell to her knees and started searching for the vine. "C'mon, ten second rule," She muttered to herself hopefully.

All of a sudden, a ball of light lit up her immediate area, and Morgan saw Tom Riddle sitting on the floor a few feet away from her. His glare was angry, until he realized who is was that he actually bumped into.

His features went blank before a charming smile pulled at his lips, "Hello Miss Hume. How are you this evening?"

Morgan was still toppled on the floor, decidedly less graceful than the man a few feet in front of her. Her eyes flickered around the surrounding darkness, and could only conclude that they were very much so alone. Everyone else had gone to bed, and she was pretty sure that Tom was the only Prefect patrolling the dungeons.

It really was a spot of bad luck.

"Uh…fantastic, just heading on my way to the common room, gunna get some sleep." Morgan slowly inched her way to her feet, gazing wearily as Tom did the same.

"That's great," Tom said kindly, "You look very tired Miss Hume."

There was really no arguing with that, so Morgan stuffed a hand in her pocket and pulled out another Red Vine, deciding that her previous one was long gone: it had been way past ten seconds anyways.

"Right, well, I'll just be going then." She slowly began inching her way around Tom when he spoke again.

"Actually I was wondering if we could talk for a second." Tom held out an arm to stop her. "Last night, I just wanted to apologize for my behavior. It was uncalled for. As I am sure you can understand, I was just a bit weary and troubled because of the way you appeared to be accusing me. I only do my best to watch out for the students at this school, and to be told that I have done otherwise is rather insulting. You can tell me any doubts that you have about my character, and I assure you, I can assuage them."

His eyes were lit up in kindness, with just the right amount of worry, and his thin lips were lightly pulled down in a tired frown. His smooth tone was so believable. And the way he held her gaze…she almost found herself _wanting_ him to reassure her that he was a good man. There was no way the Tom Riddle in front of her could become Voldemort. No way.

But then, under the light of his wand, Morgan spied the Marvolo ring on his finger. She recalled reading from Snape's file that it belonged to Tom's Uncle, and that Riddle nicked it off the man before framing him for his father's and grandparent's deaths. Anger came flooding through her, and her softened gaze turned to a glare again.

"We have nothing to discuss, Riddle. Just get out of my way," She felt her bravado returning to her again, and she assertively stuffed her hands in her pockets and ducked under Tom's arm.

She almost thought that he was going to let her go, but after she had gone three steps she felt his pale hand wrap around her shoulder. And then she was pushed back into the stone wall.

"You are so ridiculously unbelievable." Tom hissed, all traces of fake kindness gone. The anger looked much more real on his face, and it made him seem more human, as if he actually felt emotions instead of displaying them to please the people around him.

"Let me go," Morgan said back, her hand going to her wand. "I'm not trying to start anything."

Riddle's wand dug into the side of her neck, the light spilling out around her, while his free hand went up to grip her chin. "I wish I didn't have to do this…"

"Liar," Morgan gasped out, trying to pull out her own wand from her pocket. "Damn bastard."

Riddle actually laughed then, "You appear to know me very well, Leah," His body was very close to hers now and their faces were inches apart.

"So were on a first name-basis now?" Morgan demanded, trying to turn her head to the side and out of his hand.

Riddle would have none of it though, and merely tightened his hold. "It would only be right, seeing as I am going to learn so much about you tonight, Leah, all those secrets you're hiding in that head of yours…" He moved his wand so that it trailed from her temple to her collar bone.

It was only then that Morgan saw how much danger she was in. _Secrets._ Things like she was from the future or what she was supposed to find. Everything would be ruined in a matter of seconds. She couldn't let that happen. She wouldn't.

In a move that surprised Tom, she rammed her head forwards into his. She was immediately rewarded when Riddle let her slip out of his grip. She resisted the urge to beat on her enemy more, knowing that he would quickly regain himself. Instead she did the only sensible thing that she could do: she ran.

She heard his footsteps coming after her, and she tried to quicken her pace, but she really wasn't in shape. She cursed the Red Vines in her mind and tried to push on faster. But as she rounded the next sharp corner, she knew that the only thing she could do was go on the offensive.

She hid behind the corner, and when she heard Tom about to turn it as well, she jumped forward and tackled him to the ground sharply. Her weight surprised Riddle, though he had enough sense to drag her down with him.

They hit the floor instantly, and like always, Morgan disregarded the fact that she was a witch, and straddled Tom. Her knees dug into his ribs painfully, and her arms held his above his head.

She noticed, from a small shift of moonlight that had happened to make its way through the corridor, that her head-butt was already beginning to bruise Tom's forehead. She grinned gleefully.

Tom, if he was angered by the situation, didn't look it. His eyebrows rose in a clam way, his wand clutched in his restrained hands lithely. He didn't appear troubled or uncomfortable with their position, if anything it looked as if he was merely indulging Morgan in some sick little game.

Morgan was too edgy to notice. She carefully pulled back one hand and slipped it into her robes to finally pull out her wand. Though instead of hexing Tom, she poked him on the nose, her dark glare bearing down on the wizard. "Leave me alone! And for godssakes! Stop trying to get into my head!"

Tom's arms were slack in her hold, "You seem to have gotten us in a very questionable position, Leah," His voice was soft now, attractive. And his pale skin gleamed in the small amount of moonlight.

Surprise flitted over Morgan's features and her mouth popped open, her hands dropping to her sides unconsciously. Only one thought ran through her mind: Mini-Voldemort made a joke. And it contained sexual innuendo. And it was directed at her.

"You…You made a…joke?" A small giggle involuntarily left her lips, pushing her weight backwards as she plopped down on top of Riddle's torso in a non-threatening manner. "No—"

But whatever she was going to say was cut off as Tom suddenly pushed himself upright into a sitting position. The movement caused Morgan to fall on the floor and before she could register what was happening, she was pushed against a stone wall again. Two pale hands wrapped themselves around her cheeks, their warmness surprising her as a body was painfully pushed against her own. Tom's face came into focus then, his lips smiling carelessly. Those were the only moments she had to prepare herself for what happened next.

It was painful. _Beyond_ painful. Like someone was forcibly ripping through her mind unrelentingly. She felt him inside of her head, picking away at her thoughts almost leisurely. He was basking in his victory, wanting to make her feel as much pain as possible before he actually did what he meant to do.

Morgan was suddenly thankful that he was a gloating bastard, because she quickly tried to block out and hide the most important parts of her, just like the way Hermione once told her.

She forced herself to forget that Morgan Caldwell even existed. Forced herself believe wholly that she never had a life before the one at Hogwarts in 1943. And tried to forget all the information in the file about Tom Riddle.

And then he was digging. As if her memories were tangible, and extended parts of Riddle were physically sifting through them.

She closed her eyes from the pain, and the thoughts Tom examined were suddenly flashing behind her lids:

She was seeing Hagrid's face. She saw pictures of a basilisk, and of an Acromantula. The Chamber of Secrets. Mrytle looking straight into the basilisk's gaze.

But that wasn't what Tom was looking for. He wanted to know _how_ she figured out his secret. And he was having a hard time doing so. Morgan had done an exceptional job of hiding what he wanted the most, and he appeared to be just realizing it.

Her Occlumency wasn't perfect though, and random memories began being pulled to the forefront of her mind:

She was small and getting slapped again, a tall man with a graying beard and black eyes was yelling at her drunkenly. She had messed up. Pete, the newest charge of the orphanage, had gotten his Sunday mass outfit dirty when she was supposed to be watching him.

Next, she was alone. The edges of her vision blurred, as it was the first time she had gotten drunk herself. She was crying outside of the church, because she was ten years old and realized she was never going to be adopted.

Then an unnamable grief assaulted her. And she couldn't breathe. She couldn't do anything. A few feet in front of her the still body of an eight month old infant lay in a crib. The child had been abandoned at the steps of the orphanage behind the church, and she had been allowed to name her. She cared for the baby for six months and grew to love it, but it didn't matter anymore, because Anne-Marie suffered cot-death after Father Miller had laid her to bed. It was his fault. Everything was.

And then, then she was blinking back tears and shaking and staring into Tom Riddle's face.

His gaze was slowly coming back into focus, and when he finally seemed to be registering the fact that she was still there, he removed his hands from her face. He looked at her curiously, his head cocked to the side, though he made no move to put any distance between them. She was still squished between him and the wall.

But that didn't matter to Morgan now. Nothing did, really. Unwanted tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes and her hands shook. She had never been violated in such a way before. Sure, she had been slapped and cursed to hell but this had been _different_. It had felt so unnaturally wrong! Like her very soul had been peeled out of her body and set up for examination. And the pain, it was a ripping one that left burning stings in its wake, burying itself deep inside her head.

She felt contaminated; there was no other word for it. As if she wasn't fully herself anymore. And she felt hatred soak into every pore of her body. She hated Tom Riddle.

She wanted to tell him that. That she wished he would die some horrible bloody death. But she felt that is she acknowledged her hate to him, she would be giving in. She had to pretend she wasn't affected, and even though her tears and shaking hands gave her away, her words wouldn't.

"Have fun poking around in my head?" She asked thickly, having to stop and sniffle angrily. "Because if you're quite done, I'd like to go to bed." Oh god, how she wanted to make him hurt as much as she did.

Tom's hands went back up to her face, and she couldn't stop from flinching away and turning her head. She didn't want to go through that again. Not now. Not ever.

But Tom really didn't seem to care for anyone's personal space. The thin hands dragged her face towards his own and his dark eyes smoldered dangerously. "Do I have to tell you how important it is you not to tell anyone about this, Leah?"

"Just Obliviate me, you bastard," Morgan hissed in response, her brown hair now hanging limply in her face.

"No," Tom chided in a tone reeking of fake ease. He tapped her nose with the tip of his finger, almost like how she poked his nose with her wand. It disgusted her. "Don't want to go and damage any of those secrets you're hiding in there." Both hands encircled her face again, "Regardless, I don't think you'll be telling anyone, you certainly don't want to reveal the fact that you are hiding a lot more than you let on. And it seems I was right, what you told the Headmaster was a lie…"

Morgan was reminded of what he had seen, the small bits of her past, the saddest times in her life. She jerked away from him, "Let me go." She growled. The intimidating factor she had hoped to put in the statement was lost in her shaking hands and tear-streaked cheeks. Not to mention the fact that she wasn't an intimidating person to begin with. She was the small one, the cheery one, and now she was the one with the secrets.

This time, Tom actually responded to her request and stepped away from her. He straightened his robes and smiled at her discomfort. It appeared to please him to see her flustered and angry beyond words. "I believe I told you that if you didn't stay out of my way Hogwarts would become a less than pleasant place, did I not?"

Morgan didn't want to dignify that question with a response.

"And now look at the mess you've gotten yourself into, Leah." He shook his head charmingly. "I really wish we could have been more civil towards each other, and I know you'd rather not have me hurt you like that again." Morgan noted how he didn't deny that _he_ had no qualms about digging through her mind once more. "So let's come to a truce. We can help each other, and I assure you, if you just tell me what I want to know you will not suffer at all."

Morgan was still leaning against the wall, and through her muddled thoughts, wondered if this was the official Death Eater recruitment speech. Part of her wanted to agree. To give in and beg to be spared. But then she thought of Harry Potter and Neville and Seamus. None of them would have given up. None of them ever did. And she wouldn't either.

She held onto the hate she harbored in her body and stepped forward. "Fuck you, Tom Riddle."

Tom was certainly surprised. The look on his face was priceless. His dark eyes widened and his mouth opened very slightly. But that was nothing compared to the way he looked after Morgan pulled back her fist and smashed it into his face. Muggle Style.

Before anything else could happen, Morgan took off down the corridor, deciding to hop up the stairs as fast as her legs could carry her. The common room wasn't safe anymore. She needed to go back to her safe heaven: the Room of Requirement.

By the time she was safely nestled into her room she realized two things: One, she had finally socked Tom in the face and broken his nose. Two, her hands were still shaking.


	11. Chapter Ten

**A/N: **This update is a day or so late, I apologize. But school has been hetic, as you know. And I just got snake-bites! Yay. They hurt a lot, haha. Anyways, this is basically a filler chapter that sets up furture interactions between the characters. So just letting you know. Next chapter is when the action starts. BIG, BIG, BIG, scene (or should I say scenes?) happening there. All I can say is that you Tom fans are gunna LOVE it. At least, I think you will. Oh, and sorry I have been unable to respond to reviews, I promise that I will tomorrow, but tonight it is very late and I have school in the morning -DESPAIR!- Next update should be coming along quicker.

Disclaimer: Don't own.

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**Chapter Ten: The Past is the Past, Doll**

Very little good came of interacting with Tom Riddle, Morgan thought Monday morning. Her head hurt something terrible; every tiny noise was amplified to the point where it felt like someone was hammering against her skull. Not to mention, she just couldn't get her past out of her head.

It was very cliché, to be lost in the memories of a tragic childhood. But to Morgan that was better than the alternative. Because when her thoughts weren't on her days in the orphanage, they were circling around the very disturbing fact that her hair wasn't changing colors.

She hadn't thought of it until after midnight, but during her whole incident with Tom her hair hadn't changed color at all. Neither had her eyes. Having her mind forcibly ripped open was more than violate enough for her to lose control of her Metamorphmagus abilities. But yet, it didn't happen. Her hair stayed its same boring brown.

She practiced then, until dawn, trying to change her appearance. The effort nearly drained her, and after all her lost energy she had only succeeded in changing her hair color twice.

The thought scared her. Being a Metamorphmagus was in her very blood, and she was more than used to the quivering feeling she got before her DNA rearranged itself. Something was wrong with her. Very, very wrong.

So Morgan decided, mission be damned or not, she was going to stay very far away from Tom. Even if it meant sprinting out of rooms and scurrying around with the Gryffindors.

"Leah, what's wrong with you?" Charlus' curious voice pulled Morgan out of her unhappy thoughts. "I don't think I've ever seen you this quiet, even when you were with the snakes."

Morgan sat up straighter in her seat at the Gryffindor breakfast table. The piece of toast in front of her lay uneaten, and despite her better judgment she snuck a glance towards the Slytherins. Tom still wasn't there. Good.

"Sorry, just tired." It was the only response she was in the mood to muster up.

"We can tell," Kayden intoned, his eyes busy skimming the Daily Prophet in front of him. "It looks like someone socked you in both eyes, like a Muggle."

Morgan touched the darkened skin under her eyes and winced at Macmillan's vocabulary. She wasn't the one that got socked, Riddle was. "Yeah. I suppose." Thinking about Riddle drew her mind back to her failing Metamorphmagus powers. She shivered.

"If anyone should be sulking, it's me," James snapped. "You attacked me with birds."

Morgan shrugged, "Sorry."

"When you're tired, you're boring." Charlus sighed.

"You're almost acting like a Slytherin," Kayden added in.

Morgan wondered where exactly a certain Slytherin was. His absence was anything but good news. For all she knew he was outside plotting her death. She did break his nose.

"Do you have any Muggle relatives?" James asked, pulling the Daily Prophet away from Kayden's fingers. The headline announced updates on World War Two. Most wizards at Hogwarts didn't care at all for the war going on, but Morgan remembered James was a Muggle born, and probably had family to worry about.

Father Miller, the man who managed her old orphanage, had often spoken about growing up as a child during the war. Some of the stories he told used to scare her senseless as a kid…

Morgan shook her head violently. No, no, no.

Charlus raised an eyebrow, "Okay then…Well, we're gunna go to class now. You should…sort your stuff out. Maybe go see Madame Childs if you're not feeling well." The Gryffindors stood up all together then, leaving her alone with her uneaten piece of toast and harrowing thoughts.

---

Morgan strolled into Bragidly's class five minutes early, a piece of toast dangling from her mouth. She still had not decided on whether or not she wanted to eat the bread, and so opted to let it sit in her mouth.

"Miss Hume, what a wonderful surprise," Bragidly stated, his tall frame leaning over his paper-strewn desk. "You're almost always at least five minutes late."

Morgan just nodded sleepily, walking to the back row of seats and taking an experimental bite of her toast. She couldn't swallow it; her body was reacting poorly to her neglect.

"There is no eating in my class, Miss Hume." The Charms professor folded his hands together and sat down himself, eyeing her from across the room with analytical interest.

Morgan spat the toast out of her mouth and stared at it for a good thirty-seconds. "Do you want it?"

The professor grimaced, and was prepared to lecture his student on proper manners when the rest of his class began filing in. Morgan's presence was soon forgotten, as she was being more quiet than usual. She didn't even pretend to follow Bragidly's speech on the charm everyone would be partnering up to research. In fact, she didn't do much except stare at the soggy piece of toast on her desk.

Soon though, the sound of moving chairs and desks broke Morgan out of her trance, and she looked up at her classmates curiously. People were pushing tables together and drawing out pieces of parchment. Violetta Fanding, who was across the room, gave Morgan a small gesture with her hand. Morgan was about to stand up and walk to her when a book was gently laid down in front of her.

"Hello Leah."

Morgan's shadowed blue eyes looked up at Tom Riddle, who was standing rather calmly in front of her desk, his bag strewn across his shoulder casually. "I was wondering if you would like to work together."

Morgan blinked dumbly, "Actually, er, Violetta—"

"Is working with Nott," Riddle said smoothly, sliding into the desk beside Morgan. She glanced around him to see a very confused Violetta sitting down politely next to a burly kid. Tom looked at her then and a small grin tugged at his pale features. "Is that a piece of toast on your desk?"

"Couldn't decide if I wanted to eat it or not," Morgan replied, turning her head away from her friend. Run! Run! Her instincts tried to pull her out of her seat, but for some reason her body wouldn't comply. Curiosity finally dragged her thoughts out of their depressing loop. "Why aren't you trying to kill me?"

Tom's expression darkened at the word 'kill'. "I don't know why you would say such a thing."

Morgan noticed Professor Bragidly slowly stalking the tables by them and realized Tom was acting. She glanced at Riddle's nose suspiciously.

"It was easy enough to heal," The Slytherin Heir replied, almost as if he was reading her thoughts.

_'Reading her thoughts'_ the expression made her face turn grim. What was she doing? Hadn't she already decided she was going to stay far away from Tom Riddle?

"I don't want to work with you." She said firmly, a dark glare masking her features. "I really, really, don't."

Tom actually looked exasperated, "You are such a child." He pulled out a piece of parchment and began writing neatly on it, his eyes darting up to the blackboard in front of the room every once and awhile.

Morgan sputtered, furious, "_I'm_ being a child? I won't answer a few of your questions and you go and have a tantrum! _Violating_ my mind! And—"

"Stop playing the victim," Riddle said calmly. "I thought you were, well, at least you seemed stronger than that." He eyed her distastefully. "But perhaps you are not."

Morgan's mouth gapped open, confusion brewing in her gaze. What was he _playing_ at? First he acts like he's going to kill her. Then he enjoys pushing himself on her. And now he acts like it's no big deal, like she didn't break his nose and like he didn't do anything to deserve it.

"I…I am confused," Morgan admitted reluctantly. "So very confused."

Tom sighed, almost theatrically, "There are quite a few things you are hiding in that head of yours," Riddle motioned with his quill to Morgan's forehead. "You will tell them to me. The only question is when. And I can wait." An excited gleam entered his dark eyes, and Morgan thought she saw a tint of red. Curious.

"Not with that attitude I won't," Morgan said simply, leaning over his parchment discreetly.

Riddle shook his head, "You are terrible at trying to be inconspicuous." He paused to read over something he had written. "Not that it matters, we are supposed to be working on this together, hence the reason for partners."

Morgan sniffed, her pride wounded, "Well maybe I should take lessons from the master? Hmm?"

Tom looked at her, his pale face smoothed over, "Perhaps you should," He smiled at her very slightly, so that she almost couldn't tell he was smiling at all.

She glanced at his pale hands then, which were lying over the parchment lazily, while his face was turned towards her. His gaze bore straight into her, dark eyes seeking out blue ones, though she avoided his stare. Instead, she studied everything else about him; how he sat completely straight in his chair with his dark robes collecting neatly at his feet. How he kept his deep green tie meticulously neat, like his parted dark hair.

She ran out of things to look at after that, and finally met his gaze. She worried momentarily that he was going to use Occlumency on her, but soon disregarded the irrational fear: there were too many witnesses. "Are you going to attack me in the corridors anymore?"

"Maybe."

Not a very reassuring answer. "Just leave me alone," She said darkly.

"I don't think you want me to," Tom said in return.

For some ungodly and irrational reason, Morgan felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment. She couldn't remember the last time she blushed. "I don't think _you_ want to leave _me_ alone!" She snapped back hurriedly.

"Well, there's no sense in denying _that_." Riddle leaned back and actually smiled in amusement.

Damn. He was doing it again. Trying to charm her.

"Stop it." She said seriously. "Stop trying be charming and ridiculously good looking and likeable. Because we both know you are none of those things. You're a _murder_," She whispered the last part, leaning in towards her adversary. "A cold hearted bastard and the proof is right there on your finger!"

Tom Riddle let out a small chuckle, but it was humorless and dark, "What do you know of that? Nothing." He said seriously, leaning in to her. "You don't know a thing about what happened, so I will ask you to not speak about it."

"You can't tell me what to do," Morgan said back. She searched his face, "You can't, and I think it bothers you."

"Well you must be right, seeing as you know everything about me," Tom spat, his tone darkening. "You're playing a very dangerous game, Leah, and you won't win."

"We'll see, Tom Riddle," She grinned, "But I know a lot more about you then you think. And as of right now, you know nothing of me."

Tom shrugged, "What is there to know of a simple orphan?"

"I could say the same thing to you." Morgan ground out, gritting her teeth. "And you have no right to talk about that."

"Oh, so you have the right to dangle bits and pieces of my past in front of my face, but I cannot return the favor?" Tom pushed out their piece of parchment then, shifting it so that it was on the edge of their table.

"That's different," Morgan protested, "I'm not like you. I haven't done the things that you have!"

"No of course not. You must be better than me." Sarcasm coated Riddle's tone.

"That's not what I meant!" Morgan sputtered out. She paused then. Wait, wasn't that what she had meant? That she was better than him because she didn't murder or manipulate? She glared down at the table, pulling out her wand and waving it erratically at her long forgotten piece of toast. It disappeared accordingly, and she dropped her head onto the wooden surface unceremoniously. She couldn't deal with this right now.

"How very mature Leah. You've been spending your entire life running away from responsibility, haven't you? Drinking when you don't think you'll ever be adopted, blaming the death of an infant on someone else. It's pathetic."

Morgan looked up from the desk to see Riddle leaning backwards in his chair, his body angled towards the front of the classroom. She opened her mouth to respond, and then closed it, unable to muster a word out of her suddenly dry throat.

She stared back down at the desk, "That was a cheap shot," She finally choked out.

"Done then, Mr. Riddle and Miss Hume?" Professor Bragidly had walked brusquely to their desks. "It looked like you were conversing about the paper, I didn't want to interrupt."

"No, we are quite done, Professor," Tom said politely with a small smile. It didn't reach his eyes.

"Well then, you have the rest of the period to do any other homework you might have gotten over the weekend." Bragidly said before glancing around the room. All of his other students were ferociously scanning through textbooks, looking helplessly at one another, trying to find the right charms and passages.

The Professor walked away, leaving Morgan and Tom by themselves once again. Morgan refused to look up from the desk, her head hanging low and her hands sitting limply in her lap before darting to her left forearm every few seconds. Her Dark Mark was irritating her greatly, and if she was in a better mood she would have wondered why.

---

She leaned against the great oak tree, her knees drawn up against her chest tightly while the drizzling rain peppered down on her body. Her thoughts were on repeat, unfortunately, and she couldn't stop them.

"Hume, you look terrible."

Morgan stopped staring blankly in front of her and looked up at Violetta Fanding. The witch was standing up next to her, blond hair letting off drops of water. Her fair face was composed into an impassive expression as she sat down next to Morgan.

"Why aren't you in your classes?" Morgan asked dully.

"I have better things to do." Violetta said.

"Like what?"

"Like this." Fanding crossed her legs in front of her in a very lady-like gesture. Her bag had been dropped beside her and she folded her hands in her lap. She didn't move to cast a water dispelling charm on herself or Morgan.

For a long moment the two witches stared off at the gray sky, letting the rain soak them through their robes. The tree they were under did little to ward away the chill settling into their bones.

"I don't want to tell you, because it won't be fair." Morgan said at last. And she meant it. She didn't want to tell Violetta what was bothering her, because that would only burden the witch.

"Life isn't fair." Violetta said blandly, knowing exactly what Morgan meant.

Morgan turned towards the blond, "I-well, I've just been thinking about the past."

A scowl actually worked its way onto Violetta's features. "The past is the past for a reason. You can't do anything about it, so there is no reason to dwell on it."

Morgan sighed, "I suppose you're right." She wished it was that easy. To forget about everything. But it was so hard. She had been doing a fairly good job before Tom Riddle came along…

A cold hand was placed over hers, and Morgan knew that even though Violetta hadn't turned to look at her, the gesture was meant to be encouraging.

"I grew up in an orphanage," Morgan finally began. "It was on the outskirts of a small Irish town and behind an old wooden church. Nine times out of ten we didn't have working electricity or running water. A man named Father Miller ran the establishment, and took in any child that was left on his steps.

"I…I don't know how to describe the man. He was tall and had this graying beard that brought out his black eyes. He taught us kids a lot about the constellations in the sky and how to cook and about Shakespeare. He used to read it to us." Morgan paused and sighed. "But he had a little problem with drinking. Lost his temper sometimes. Almost always ended up passing out near the alter on Saturdays. I never wanted any of the younger kids to see him like that, so I was always the one dragging him upstairs to his lodgings above the church and cleaning him up. Whenever I did that, the next morning, he would always pat me on the head affectionately and give me a piece of chocolate.

"I think I loved him," Morgan continued cautiously. "At least, once I did. But then, on the rare occasion that anyone would come looking at the kids to adopt us, he always sent me out to town, always made sure I was never anywhere near the would-be parents. He purposely made sure no one could adopt me." Anger bubbled up in her chest. "It wasn't fair, goddammit. He had no right! No right to deny me a warm home with a fire and good food!" She clenched her fists.

"And then a baby was dropped on our steps when I had just turned ten years old. I named her and took care of her and everything. I loved her. And then that bastard put her to bed and she died. Cot-death! He could have checked on her! He could have saved her life!"

Morgan willed away the tears that threatened to fill her eyes. She took a deep breath, "It just wasn't fair." She stopped, not wanting to go on, partly because she couldn't. After Anne-Marie's death Dumbledore had come to the orphanage and offered her a place at Hogwarts. He had to fight tooth and nail against Father Miller to get her to go, but eventually, Miller found out, there was no fighting against a wizard. Father Miller had always known there was something odd about Morgan, and he couldn't stop her from learning what she needed to at Hogwarts. But he had made sure that she would be forced to come home every summer and Christmas holidays.

She hated him for it. And her hate grew with each year.

But she couldn't tell Violetta that. Because Leah Hume was an exchange student, and Dumbledore didn't save Leah Hume from an orphanage when she was eleven.

Violetta seemed to accept the fact that Morgan wasn't saying anymore, though. And a soothing quiet settled between the two witches, while the rain around them steadily stilled.

"I think…I think he loved you so much he couldn't let you go." Violetta said finally. Her hands once again folded in her lap. Her blond hair had been brushed back while Morgan was speaking, and sparkled in the sun finally appearing from the clouds.

Morgan looked back down at her knees; she didn't want to believe it. She refused to. Because if Father Miller really loved her, she didn't think she would ever be able to forgive herself.

"Well, the past is the past, right?" She responded.

"So it is," Violetta agreed, her pale eyes clouding over.

Morgan pushed herself up to her feet, "Want to head to lunch? I think I'm hungry."

Fanding stood up gracefully, "Yes, I think that sounds good. You could definitely use some meat on your frame."

"You and you're never-ending supply of compliments," Morgan chortled.

Violetta shrugged, "You looked like you needed an ego-booster."

They walked in silence back towards the castle, and Morgan thought back to what Violetta said. It was impossible. People who loved others didn't hit them or hurt them, no matter what the circumstances. No, Father Miller hated her and she hated him. And that's the way it was.

She took comfort in the normality of those thoughts, and finally, after a long day, was able to push Father Miller out of her mind. He didn't matter anymore regardless. Besides, she had other things to worry about. Like stealing potion supplies from Slughorn's storage…

The thought made her grin happily.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**A/N: **Well, my lovely readers, here we have another chapter. Its rather long, though I've found that updating once a week makes me more inclined to write more. Anyways, the plot thickens from here on out, though I am sorry to say the interaction between Tom and Morgan I was looking forward to has been pushed back. Though TONS of stuff is happening in this one -- like a little trip to the Chamber of Secrets. Anyways, like always I want to thank my lovely reviewers and all those who fave/alert. I would take the time to write down all your names, but its freakin' 6 in the morning and I am dead tired. Forgive any mistakes that you find, I have no beta. And I've found that I got less reviews for the last chapter, hopefully, if you read, you'll review just to make me smile. And to make the updates come quicker, hah.

Disclaimer: WHY MUST WE POST DISCLAIMERS WHEN WRITING ON A SITE CLEARLY LABELED FANFICTION!?! IT MAKES NO SENSE.

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**Chapter Eleven: When Good Days Go Bad**

For the first time in over a month and a half, Morgan Caldwell was wearing a T-shirt. And she was damned well proud of it.

Well, so maybe it wasn't exactly a T-shirt. Rather, it was one of those fancy blouses that even Lucretia Black would approve of. But not even that fact could bother Morgan today. Nothing could, really, because everything was starting to finally work out.

It had been a little over a month since she had broken into Slughorn's private potion stores, a little adventure that was surprisingly easier than she thought. The poor, misguided fat man didn't even have protecting spells around his cupboards. Slipping into his office during dinner was possibly the easiest thing she had done since arriving in the stupid past.

After retrieving all of her required ingredients, it had taken Morgan weeks to brew her strong concealing potion. And she hadn't been disappointed. Seconds after downing the strangely opal colored concoction, she felt a familiar tingling and jittery motion buzzing beneath her skin. Her very DNA began rearranging itself, tricking her body into believing the marks that marred her skin never existed. It was a very complicated process that delivered immediate results.

So Morgan was in an exceptionally good mood. And she wouldn't let the thoughts of her still ailing Metamorphmagus abilities, or Black's annoyingly smug grin, hold her back.

"My, my, Leah, you look wonderful today. Any particular reason why you've actually taken the time to look presentable?"

Morgan tossed Blooming a short lived smile, "Marinette, your good humor never ceases to amaze me. It's no wonder you have so many friends."

The short witch was still trying to figure out whether Morgan had insulted her or complimented her when Violetta Fanding showed up. The tall witch sat down next to Morgan at the breakfast table without so much as a greeting, like always. She tucked her blonde hair behind her ears and pulled out another book, pushing away her gilded plate to make room for the dusty novel.

"If you always have your nose in a book, dear, you'll never find a suitable husband." Lucretia totted. Her plate was neatly piled with small amounts of fruit that she ate at appropriate intervals, making sure to never put too much in her mouth at one time.

"I agree with Lucretia," Marinette contributed. "You have decent looks, why distort what you have going for you by indulging yourself in bad habits?"

Ah, there it was again, the underlying insult in an offhand comment. Classic bitchy behavior for the girls of the time period. At least for the girls of the Slytherin house.

"If I were you, Marinette, I would spend much less time worrying about me and much more time worrying about those split ends of yours. Not to mention, your flat footedness is a less than desirable quality." Violetta turned a page in her book, her cool eyes glancing up momentarily to assess the reaction of the stumpy witch.

Morgan snorted into her goblet of pumpkin juice.

"Do you find something funny?" Marinette hissed, her face turning an unattractive red color.

Isabella, usually the happier witch of Black and co., rather gloomily buried her head in the crook of her arm. "Why must you all carry on with silly insults when there are other, more serious problems going on in the world?!"

Morgan peered over her cup at the redheaded witch sitting across from her. Was there seriously an economic conscious witch in the noble house of Slytherin?

"Tom Riddle hasn't even wished me a happy birthday! Let alone given me a gift!"

Guess not.

Lucretia leaned over to her friend and rubbed her back soothingly, "Don't worry darling. I'm sure he's just busy. Tom Riddle is one of the greatest men to walk the halls of this school, and that entails a lot of work. You should just be lucky that he's got his eye on you."

Once again, Morgan found the insides of her goblet interesting as she tried to banish her peals of laughter. Tom Riddle having his eye on someone? The mere notion was completely laugh worthy. Tom wasn't interested in _being _with someone. He was interested in everything else. Like power, or torture, or lacrosse.

"I'm starting to doubt he's interested in marrying me," Isabella Marston continued. "He hasn't even mentioned it. In fact, we haven't talked in the longest time!"

Marinette shook her head quickly, "Do not say such things, dear! Remember that Hogsmeade trip a few weeks ago?"

Isabella made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat.

Morgan winced. She sure as hell remembered that visit. It had been a few days before Halloween; one of the worst holidays for her, and Charlus and Kayden had dragged her out of the castle. They led her right into a dark alley where James Darley popped out and scared her half to death.

After she had finished pounding her fists on James' back, he calmed her down enough to tell her it was payback. She had deserved it, he reasoned, because he still had little marks from her damned birds.

All in all, the whole affair was unpleasant. Though she cocked her head curiously, urging Marinette to continue and tell everyone what happened between Isabella and her apparent beau. What ludicrous thing could Tom Riddle have done for Isabella to get the idea that he fancied her?

What? Did she trip on a patch of ice and Tom caught her? Simply to avoid having Isabella drag him down with her? Or perhaps they had bumped into each other in the village and Tom had said 'Sorry'. The possibilities were endless! And all equally ridiculous!

"That red bouquet of roses was simply gorgeous Isabella! Tom couldn't have been clearer about his feelings towards you!"

…. Or not.

Morgan choked on her pumpkin juice, sputtering the liquid across the table. An odd cross between a terrible cough and an obnoxious laugh came out of her throat. Violetta lazily tapped her back with a gentle ineffectiveness.

Isabella thrust out her chin, a slight blush coating her cheeks. "What's so funny about that, Leah? Think Tom's too good for me?" She demanded.

Morgan was still too busy coughing to comment.

"Don't worry, Isabella, Hume is just jealous. It's quite obvious she's fancied Riddle ever since she got to this school. Though envy is very unbecoming of a lady when not kept in check."

Tears streamed out of Morgan's eyes and she tried to quiet her laughter. "You all thought that I fancied Riddle?" Her hands shook with mirth as she grabbed a chocolate muffin from the breakfast table. "That's like believing Lucretia is humble! Ridiculous!"

Lucretia's eyes narrowed, "Leah, your obnoxiousness and disrespect is getting on my last nerve."

"You never liked me to begin with," Morgan pointed out. "Anyways, I certainly don't fancy Riddle that way. I just find it funny that he gave you roses because he never seemed like someone who was exactly in-tune with their romantic side. Ya know? Kinda like Fanding!"

Violetta smirked slightly, "And how would you know that, Leah?" She closed her book and raised an elegant eyebrow, participating in—for probably the first time in her life—playful banter.

"Violetta, you…" Morgan paused, trying to think of the right way to describe her friend. "You're kind of like a calculator. Ya know? Very factious and straightforward. Like, if I want to know what seven times six equaled, I would go talk to my calculator because it would give me the answer right away. I wouldn't ask Marinette here, because, well, I don't think she can count past ten, and also because she would try and tell me a bunch of useless gossip before actually giving me the answer."

"That made no sense at all. Besides the part where you insulted Marinette, that I definitely understood," Violetta smiled. "Though if I had to describe you, the words reckless and clueless come to mind quite often."

"Oh ha, ha, ha," Morgan rolled her eyes.

"I can count past ten," Marinette interjected with a growl. "And I am tired of you always insulting me!"

"Now, now ladies, no need to fight over me!" Braxton Caldwell swept onto the scene, pushing back his hair and taking a seat across from Violetta. He winked at her suggestively before leaning towards Isabella.

"Hello Caldwell," she sniffed, her puffy eyes narrowed, "What do you want?"

"I just came to deliver you a lovely message from Tom Riddle," Braxton answered. "He says, 'happy birthday, Isabella'. He also apologizes for the fact that he can't see you today. You know, busy Prefect stuff."

Marinette smirked, "See, I told you not to worry Isabella. He didn't forget."

"He still didn't get me a birthday present," Marston snapped back. "And we still barely talk! It's such a burden. Sometimes I think I should just date a nice Hufflepuff."

"Tom Riddle is the most wanted man in this whole school. Do not let him go," Lucretia warned tersely.

"You wound me!" Braxton yelped. "I thought I was the handsomest man in Hogwarts!"

"Try not to be so egotistical," Violetta said.

"Oh you love it. Speaking of me and you, when are you going to let me take you out for_ your_ birthday?"

Morgan's mouth popped open, "You two are gunna go out together? Like on a date?"

Violetta shrugged indifferently, "I have not decided whether or not I will be letting Braxton take me out." She brushed back her thin blond hair and rubbed her temples, "I haven't been really thinking about it at all," She confessed.

"Good thing I am not one to be discouraged," Braxton replied. "You'll say yes eventually. Don't you remember the first time I met you and I said I would marry you someday?"

"You were eleven. I hardly took you seriously."

"And yet, here we are."

"How adorable," Marinette remarked, though from the scowl on her face, Morgan guessed Blooming really didn't care for the couple at all.

"Back to the problem at hand," Isabella stressed evenly, "Tom hasn't been present for a few weeks! Where's he hiding? Does anyone see him anymore?"

Morgan took another bite of her chocolate muffin and mulled Marston's words around in her head. It was true; actually, that Morgan had not seen Riddle. She had been too focused on brewing her potion to notice that he had suddenly begun to leave her alone. And though normally the thought would please her, under the circumstances it unsettled her. He was up to something.

And that something probably had to do with the Founders Necklace.

Not very good news at all.

"Right well, it was pleasure, as always, but I've got places to be." Morgan spun out of her seat and straightened down her blouse. "Good luck with the Tom Riddle thing," She acknowledged Marston, who only sniffed in return. "And good luck with Fanding, Braxton."

The seventh year grinned, "I don't need luck."

Violetta smacked his arm with her book.

---

"If I were an evil monster where would I be hiding…" Morgan mused to herself, stalking Hogwarts halls. Since it was Saturday, she didn't have any classes to attend to, which left her a lot of time to search for Tom Riddle.

The fact that he was less present than usual did not settle well with her. Well, really, nothing about her current situation settled well with her.

She had been too distracted these first few months. When she should have been searching for the Founders Necklace, she was pouring through the pages of spell books. It wasn't right.

Now it was two months into the school year and she had no idea where to look for the Necklace. Morgan also didn't know where Tom Riddle was with his search. He could have already found the damn thing!

"No sense in whining about shit you can't change," She sighed unhappily. She would simply have to start from square one, and that meant finding Tom.

Naturally, the library would be the place to start. Morgan was pretty sure Tom spent half his time there.

Her intuition proved correct, for when she waltzed into the library minutes later she spied him among the shelves in the Restricted Section. How cliché.

Morgan always hated the Restriction Section. It was so dark and gloomy. Not to mention, the one time she picked a book off the shelf there it screamed at her.

Tom, however, seemed completely at home among the dark books. His back was to her, his slight shoulders straight, while one hand supported a thick novel. His head was dipped over its pages.

The way Morgan looked at it; there was at least a seventy percent chance that whatever Tom was reading had something to do with the Founders Necklace. She was pretty sure she just couldn't meander over there and casually ask her archenemies what he was studying. No, this operation required discreet action and swift execution.

Unfortunately, Morgan lacked the ability to go through with such actions.

Taking a small running start, Morgan loped down the dark isle swiftly and promptly jumped on Riddle's back. Her small legs encircled his waist and her arms settled themselves on his shoulders.

Morgan had to give Tom some credit; he didn't let out a startled yelp or start flailing around, instead he stiffened up, snapping his book shut in one motion and reaching for his wand in another. Morgan appreciated the position he was in: he couldn't very well hex the student on his back, lest his Prefect position be put in jeopardy.

After a second, though, Tom sniffed the air and relaxed slightly. "Leah Hume, what in the world are you doing?"

Morgan froze. She hadn't gotten this far into her plan.

"Uh, well, you see…I was…er…testing the laws of gravity!" Morgan paused, "And how did you know it was me anyways!?" Good, very good, always better to go on the offensive.

"Your hair always smells like raspberries," he said simply.

Morgan ignored his answer and tried to crane her head over his shoulder. Her eyes frantically sought out the book he had been reading, and she had just barely registered the emerald embedded in its cover when Tom reached around and grabbed her. He dragged her off his back and towed her to a small rickety table down the isle.

He tossed the book on the floor, very obviously out of her line of sight, and sat in one of the chairs. "You were testing the laws of gravity?"

Morgan nodded very seriously. "What goes up must come down."

Tom frowned in annoyance, "Now is a very inconvenient time for you to bother me, Leah." He tapped the lamp that sat on the table with his wand, and it lit up accordingly.

Morgan shrugged and took the seat across from him. She tried craning her neck around his chair to see just a tiny bit of the title of his book, but wasn't very successful. "You see, that's the point of bothering someone, it's meant to annoy them. If I bothered you at a convenient time, it would hardly be effective."

Tom leaned across the table, "I think I preferred it when you avoided me," He said softly. "Which leads me to the question, why _are_ you so friendly now?"

"Friendly?" Morgan scoffed. "I wouldn't call jumping on your back friendly more like—"

"Intimate." Tom said seriously.

Morgan's mouth popped open. "Ew. I was gunna say violent, or something equally terrifying."

"You never think, do you?"

"I wouldn't say_ that_, exactly…"

Tom sighed darkly, "Leah, you had your bare legs wrapped around my waist and your arms around my neck. Can you not see the implications?"

"Oh. Right. Not good. Especially since Isabella Marston is under the impression you're going to ask for her hand in marriage." Morgan grinned at the scowl that flashed across Riddle's pale face.

"Women." He spat the word out as if it were disgusting.

"In her defense, you did give her a bundle of red roses, apparently." Morgan said skeptically. "Who told you to do that?"

Tom crossed his arms, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you do!" Morgan answered back triumphantly. "You obviously don't like Isabella, let alone anyone—well, besides yourself anyways—and you don't know how to woo a girl, so that means someone is telling you how. Now, I'm not sure _why_ you would want people to think you like Isabella, but you do."

"Braxton Caldwell picked out the roses," Tom admitted after a moment. "But that's not the point." His eyes darkened, "Why are we having a civil conversation. The last time I checked, you hated me after…"

He didn't have to say it. Morgan knew exactly what he meant, and frowned unhappily at the mention of their past midnight meeting. It had hurt like hell, and was a complete invasion of privacy, but after she had talked with Violetta, Morgan had decided to come to terms with the encounter. It was easier than she expected—and instead of spending her time fuming over the whole ordeal she became curious. Why had Riddle stopped so soon? If he had pushed further into her mind that night, she was sure he could have stripped away all of her secrets.

"Water under the bridge," Morgan waved one hand dismissively. Besides, she was in a good mood today.

"Water under the bridge," Tom deadpanned.

"Yes."

"You are going to be the death of me," Tom snapped after a minute of silence.

Hah! If only that were true.

"Excuse me?" Morgan asked politely, leaning backwards in her chair.

Tom pointed a long digit at her, "Everything about you is one contradiction after another. I can tell you're up to something, but whatever it is, it's just beyond my grasp. And it's driving me crazy."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, you often infuriate me."

"At least I'm doing something right."

Neither said anything for awhile, Tom was staring into the fire-lit lamp whilst Morgan was content to gaze at the ceiling. It was kind of like the calm before the storm.

In hindsight, it probably wasn't the best idea to get back on speaking terms with Tom, but after her poorly thought of plan—the one where she basically jumped him—it seemed unavoidable. At least, for the moment, he didn't have a clue about what she was doing, so perhaps her rash acting was for the best. She seemed to be confusing the hell out of the calculative Riddle, the man who prided himself on figuring people out and manipulating them afterwards. And the longer Tom stayed oblivious to Morgan's real motives, the better.

"Oh, I think you should get Isabella a birthday present. She was whining about the fact you failed to do so." Morgan muttered.

"Doesn't matter," Tom replied easily. "You seem to be more uncovered than usual today."

The offhand comment surprised Morgan, "Uh, what?"

Tom nodded towards her bare arms, "You're wearing a short-sleeved blouse. Not to mention, your skirt is shorter than usual. Your research on concealing charms worked out then."

Morgan leaned forward in her chair, "That's a rather wild guess."

"Not really," Tom disagreed. "Before today you've never worn anything other than long-sleeved shirts, even when the weather was nice. But today, when it's only fifty-four degrees outside, you're dressed like that. Which leads me to believe that whatever you're hiding is on one of your arms."

"Oh how very observational," Morgan snapped, uncomfortable with where the conversation was going. "But that isn't any of your business."

"I'll find out soon enough," Tom said confidently. He began picking up his things from the floor, "Don't accuse me of being rude now, but I have other matters to attend to. And the next time you see me, a simple 'hello' will suffice, hugs are not necessary."

Morgan's cheeks turned rather pink, "It wasn't a hug Riddle! It was a vicious attack! And where the hell are you going!?"

"'That isn't any of your business,'" Riddle mocked Morgan, getting to his feet. Morgan followed suit, and walked up to him, poking him in the chest.

"What are you going to do?"

Tom grabbed her wrist, "You are so pushy today, aren't you? And, it would seem, very eager to spend time with me."

"Stop trying to make it seem like I fancy you!" Morgan said, frustrated, before she pulled back her wrist. "What if I'm just trying to make sure you don't do anything stupid?"

"When have I ever done anything stupid?" Riddle groaned, though a small smile pulled at his lips. "And who said anything about fancying me?"

"Oh goddammit." Morgan muttered. "I can think of a few stupid things you've done!"

Tom leaned down, and since Morgan had long ago closed the distance between them, he was very close to her face, "Do tell."

"Oh no," Morgan said, backing up a bit, "Share and tell is over."

Tom shrugged, "Very well, but if you must know, all I'm going to do is have a conversation with Professor Slughorn."

"Oh yeah," Morgan said dumbly, "Slug Club is tonight."

"Yes, and I need to finish some homework." Tom slung his bag over his shoulder. "So we will continue this conversation at a later date."

"Yeah well, it kind of seems inevitable I guess."

"Good to know you're finally accepting that fact."

Tom walked away then, his crisp footsteps echoing through the empty library. Morgan stood there silently for a long moment, before gathering her stuff too, and heading towards the librarian. Once she reached the front desk she mustered up her best, "I'm-a-polite-and-a-really-good-child" expression.

"Can I help you dear," the aging witch questioned her.

Morgan nodded, "Yes, I was wondering if you could tell me what books we have at school with a green emerald embedded in their cover."

The gray-haired witch mulled over Morgan's words, "There's only one book that I can really think of," she began slowly. "It would be in the Restricted Section—" Huzzah! "—and is filled with really dark magic. I wouldn't dare let a student check it out, unless they had a signed note from the Headmaster."

Dark, restricted, dangerous. All three words did not sit well with Morgan when put together with Tom Riddle. Well, at least she knew it didn't have anything to do with the Founders Necklace. The Necklace was an artifact, not a spell.

"Oh, okay, that must not be the book I'm looking for," Morgan lied. "I'm actually looking for a book about the founders and ancient artifacts of the magical world."

"Oh, those are some wonderful subjects," the witch commended Morgan. "Let me show you what we've got—you're the new student, correct?—I'll just grab them for you now then, and save you some time."

Morgan grinned, "Wonderful."

---

Morgan retreated to the sanctity of the Room of Requirement for the next few hours, skimming through the books the librarian had piled up for her. Most of them were full of useless information she really didn't give a damn about—what Helga Hufflepuff's favorite color was (orange), and Godric Gryffindor's favorite pastime (bird-watching).

It wasn't until ten at night when Morgan picked up the last book in her large pile. It was extremely thin, with a cloth cover and papery pages. In fact, it kind of resembled a diary. Morgan reasoned that the small book must have accidentally slipped in with the other thick volumes, and leisurely flipped through it.

It turned out to indeed be a diary, one of a famous artifact collector. The wizard had a knack for finding the unfindable, and though Morgan grew excited at the prospect, no mention of the Founders Necklace was uncovered. That was, until, the very last page of the diary.

_'It would seem that all of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is full of secrets. But none as elusive as the mention of one little Necklace. It has been said in legend that the Necklace was made by all four of the school's founders. It supposedly holds a phenomenal amount of power, though for how long that power will last is unknown. It has never been seen, though I would bet my life that it is hidden where only the true of heart would find it. Or perhaps, where the dark of heart would. Deep within in the chambers, closest to Salazar, is where I fancy it hides, just waiting for someone to nick it up. If only that someone were me.' _

So the little artifact collector was a little presumptuous, but who was Morgan to judge? Her heart beat erratically as she reread his last entry about the Necklace. Closest to Salazar Slytherin…

Well, it had to be in the Chamber of Secrets then, right? From what Morgan remembered, the secret chamber could be accessed from the girl's bathroom, the one that Moaning Myrtle haunted. The problem was actually getting in there though; because she was pretty sure you had to speak that creepy snake language. Pastletongue? Paresltongue? Whatever that language was called, she knew she couldn't very well speak it. So she was screwed.

Tom Riddle probably spoke it, him being the heir of Slytherin and all. But she couldn't exactly go up to him and ask him how to say "open" in snake language without looking a bit suspicious. She could always go snake-hunting, and ask a snake to pretty please open up the chamber for her. Though she doubted she'd get very good results from doing that.

Sighing irritably, Morgan decided that she might as well stakeout the area just in case. So, gathering up a cloak (because it was getting chilly out), she strode out of the Room of Requirement towards the girls bathroom on the second floor.

It was empty, of course, and strangely enough, not even Moaning Myrtle was there. The sinks were collected in a circle in the middle of the wide room, and Morgan caught her own reflection in the mirrors above them.

"Right, well, stakeout time?" Her own face looked back questionably at her, and Morgan realized she really had no idea what that exactly entailed.

She strode around the sinks, running her hands along the water faucets, her eyes searching for the tiny serpent she knew would be carved into one of the handles. After hastily circling the sinks once without any success, she closed her eyes heavily and let touch alone guide her.

So, as one can imagine, when her hand came in contact with something _very _much alive and _not_ metal, she squealed and nearly jumped five feet in the air. A loud hissing noise snapped back at her in response, and Morgan's eyes flashed open.

"Oh dear, uh, shit."

A small green garden snake stared back at her blankly, and seemed to hiss again to reprimand her for her crude language. The snake's small body was curled around the handle of the hot water tap and Morgan's hand hovered over it.

"Uh, sorry for disturbing you," She said hesitantly, "Any particular reason why you're here?"

The snake stared back at her, unblinkingly, and Morgan rubbed the back of her neck. "Well alright then. Now that you're here and everything, would you mind doing me a favor? See there's this chamber thing underneath us and I kinda need to go poking around down there. Mind helping me open these sinks up?"

The sheer insanity of the statement baffled even Morgan. And she briefly wondered why she had even bothered talking to the snake to begin with. But then, amazingly, the snake rose up and twisted around to face the mirrors on top of the sink. It let out a single hiss, and suddenly the sinks began collapsing in on themselves.

The snake then slithered off the hot water tap and onto Morgan's offered hand. "Woah, that actually worked," she mused, not unhappily. "That was kind of my last-ditch plan, ya know? Never really expected it to work. No matter."

She brushed back her hair and wrapped it into a pony-tail with her free hand. "Time to go exploring." Her blue eyes flickered to the black pit in the center of the bathroom uncertainly. "Uh, right. Shall we?"

---

Morgan freakin' hated the damn Chamber of fucking Secrets. It was more like the Chamber of Shit and Other Unpleasant Shit. So far, the only thing Morgan had found was old bones and mold. It was bad enough that she had tripped on the stairs on her way down, and then had to go through this extremely unpleasant tunnel slide that landed her on top of a pile of—guess what!?!—more bones, but now she was standing before a solid and very closed off looking wall.

"Oh by all means, god," She snapped, "Bring me down here through all this crap to stare at a damn wall." There was a picture of a snake painted on it, and Morgan was reminded of her fellow explorer. "What to contribute a little effort here? Ya know, be a team player?"

In response, the green garden snake flicked out its tongue, but, luckily, did let out another hiss. The wall was suddenly brought to life, it seemed, and split right down the middle. Due to the darkness pretty much bleeding off the stone walls, Morgan had been forced long ago to pull out her wand and say a simple _"Lumos"_, but it seemed the charm wasn't necessary anymore, for the room she now entered was lit extremely well.

It was a large hall that had varying levels of water collecting on the ground. At the far end of the room, however, there stood a large stone-faced statue with an open mouth. There were no signs of life, but Morgan knew of the stories about the basilisk. She pulled out a pair of sunglass goggles that Quidditch players wore on sunny days.

"I'll still be petrified, but that's better than dead," She muttered to herself, pulling the goggles over her head. "Sorry Mr. Green, I only have one pair." In Morgan's defense, the little snake curled around her arm didn't seem too interested in them anyways. "Right, now if I was a devious little bastard who wanted to hide something important in the most inconvenient place it the world, where would I hide it?"

Unfortunately, Morgan knew exactly where she would hide it. She wanted to slap Salazar Slytherin right then and there, but unfortunately for her he was long dead, and the only thing she had to work with was his stupid statue. With that black hole of a mouth. Which she was about ten seconds away from crawling into.

Morgan took a few hesitant steps towards the statue when a deep guttural hissing came from within it. Great. More snakes. Morgan immediately cast her head downwards and whipped out her wand, wondering for not the first time that perhaps this hadn't been the best of ideas.

A large slithering sound echoed around the hall, followed by a thump, which meant the basilisk had exited the statue's mouth. Morgan was about to raise her wand to attempt to cast a petrifying spell, when Mr. Green began hissing again.

The small snake had risen up from Morgan's hand and spat out a ton of angry noises towards the general area of the basilisk. In turn, the basilisk hissed back, though he seemed to be coming closer and closer. Not good.

Morgan inched her way away from the larger snake, and realized that the Killing Curse may be her only way out of her current predicament. The thought didn't settle well with her, even if the snake was most likely planning how to digest her best.

More hissing noises.

Dear god, were these snakes discussing politics?

Then, the sound of parting water. The basilisk was slithering away from them, towards the end of the chamber. Wonderful. An actual improvement.

"Nice negotiating, Mr. Green," Morgan complimented her companion, before moving her head up to study her obstacle again. If Morgan had to bet, the inside of the statue wasn't at all clean. But she had a very strong gut feeling that the Founders Necklace was in there, and by god she was gunna get it.

She strode towards the statue confidently and cautiously clambered up Salazar's chin. She probably didn't look very dignified at the moment, but could care less. She swung one leg over into the statue's mouth, and wrinkled her nose when her foot hit a rather mushy ground. She sidled the rest of her body inside the icky tunnel and put forth her wand again. She whispered _"Lumos"_, and was rewarded with a rather disgusting sight.

Snake crap. All. Over. The. Damn. Place.

"Just my luck." Morgan growled in response, covering her face with her hand. The smell was atrocious. Even Mr. Green seemed affected by it, and opted to take shelter in her pocket. "Good thing I'm a damn witch." She pointed her wand deep into the hole, _"__Scourgify"._

The effect was immediate, and suddenly the tunnel around her was wiped clean. Only solid, shining stone stood in front of her, and Morgan gently lifted her wand to search the surrounding area. The tunnel seemed pretty straight forward, and only led in one direction—down.

Ambling down the steep stone decline, Morgan let her hands help her keep her balance, and tore off her goggles. It took at least five minutes to get to the end of her journey, and when she did, she couldn't help but be disappointed.

The tunnel opened up to a relatively large circled ground, and sitting in the middle of the hallowed out stone sat a small trinket. It was round in shape, with gold features decorating its surface. It was small though, and sat on the end of a silver chain. In the middle of the circular device was a small black gem that glittered in the artificial light of her wand. Five different indents outlined the perimeter of the trinket, and when Morgan picked it up she discovered the individual fingers of a hand were meant to settle in there.

It was cool. But it sure as hell wasn't the Founders Necklace.

"God hates me. It's fucking official."

From deep within her robe pocket she heard a small hissing sound.

Oh, Mr. Green.

Morgan didn't know how long she had spent wandering around the Chamber of Secrets, but she figured it was long enough. Stuffing her newly discovered—but completely unwanted—discovery in her other pocket, she made her way out of the tunnel. Climbing back up the incline was harder than going down, so it took an extra ten minutes, but when she finally did reach the end and had tugged on her Quidditch sunglass goggles, she couldn't have been happier.

The tunnel was cramped.

Morgan closed her eyes again (the basilisk was on the other side of the hall, and she didn't fancy being petrified), and navigated her way down the statue of Salazar Slytherin based on touch alone. Mr. Green slithered out of her pocket at that point, and began hissing at the basilisk again. The larger snake seemed more complacent the second time around, and wordlessly slithered back into his humbled abode. Once the basilisk had completely vanished within the statute, Salazar's stone mouth closed on its own, which Morgan found a bit odd, though she wouldn't deny she was thankful to be done with the killing snake.

Finding her way out of the Chamber proved to be a lot easier than getting in. Especially when Mr. Green was being more sociable and helpful and hissing at her when she went the wrong way. It only took about twenty minutes for her to slink back up the moldy dark steps to where she knew the exit to be. At that point, though, she was completely dead-tired, and almost entertained the idea of just going to sleep there.

Mr. Green, apparently, disagreed with her, as he rose off her shoulder and hissed at the dark mass in front of them. Instantly, the familiar grinding sounds of sinks folding in on themselves met Morgan's ears, and she watched happily as the girl's second floor bathroom was revealed.

She joyfully jumped up and over the sinks, imitating a movie she once saw in her own time. "Ah, Mr. Green, we did it. I must say, we make a good team."

"Oh Leah, I would leave talking to snakes to the Paresltongues."

Morgan groaned, "Not you!" She turned around slowly to see Tom Riddle leaning against the exit to the bathroom, his hands casually draped in his pockets. His eyes looked especially excited; Morgan could almost see their characteristic glint of red.

Tom shrugged before opening his mouth and letting loose a short little collection of hissing sounds. Mr. Green slid off her shoulder then, and made his way over to the Slytherin heir.

"Traitor," Morgan mumbled to the snake, watching as it abandoned her easily. And she thought they were beginning to bond.

"Now, Leah, I believe you have something for me."


	13. Chapter Twelve

**A/N: **Ahh, its been a week too long, my friends. Anyways, originally I had this chapter and the next one (which I will be posting in five minutes) as one whole chapter. But then I realized Chapter twelve would be 23 pages long and contain wayyy to much information for one segment of our story. So I split it in half. Anyways, thanks again to everyone who review (**Especially Nait) **and to everyone that alert/faved. Sorry for the wait, guys(:

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve:**** Stick Waving Idiots**

"Now, Leah, I believe you have something for me…"

Morgan's hand inadvertently jumped to her pockets, her fingers gently rubbing the trinket residing there. "Come again?"

"Hand it over," Tom said simply, a dark smile pulling at his intense features. "And don't bother lying to me. We both know you have it."

"Riddle, Riddle, Riddle." Morgan glanced about the bathroom apprehensively. Her only exit was blocked off by the heir of Slytherin, which didn't do much to improve her spirits. "Riddle." His name was repeated on her tongue simply for the sake of buying time.

Tom quirked an eyebrow, "Yes Leah?" He slowly pulled his wand from his cloak pocket. It was an exaggerated movement with one clear meaning: No funny business.

"How's the weather outside?"

Tom blinked dumbly. Had the circumstances surrounding their meeting been different, Morgan would have smirked at the look of utter confusion that clouded his features. "Pardon me?"

"The weather," Morgan said again, cautiously. She began inching her way around the collection of porcelain sinks. They towered upwards from the center of the restroom, arranged in a neat circle; it gave her the leverage she needed to put as much space as possible between her and Tom. "You know, is it cold out? Or warm, or…" she stumbled over her words. "You know. The weather."

"You're doing it again," Tom said stiffly. The red excitement slowly dimmed from his eyes, replaced by agitation.

"Doing, what, exactly?" Morgan's footsteps were small and light, but gradually they began putting a desired amount of distance between her and her enemy.

Mr. Green hissed from his contorted position wrapped around Tom's knuckles. The pale teenager narrowed his eyes, "Leah, what are you doing now?" he questioned, noticing her movements.

Morgan tried to warp her features into a mask of innocence, "Whatever do you mean?"

"Always trying to cause trouble," Tom brewed darkly.

The next moment Morgan found she couldn't move. She was rooted to the spot, magic welding her feet and arms together. Her eyes widened in anger. She hadn't even seen that one coming.

"Nonverbal spells are a strength of mine," Tom pocketed his wand, "I'm surprised you didn't know that about me."

He was mocking her.

"That was hardly necessary," she muttered, ignoring his sarcastic comment. Well, at least she could still talk. "What do you want? Have you come here to give me a detention for being out after curfew?"

"Stop acting like a simpleton when we both know you are much more than that." Now that Morgan was sufficiently tied up, Tom leisurely walked to the bathroom window and let the green garden snake slide from his grasp. His gaze delved into the darkness surrounding the castle for a few, long moments.

"Is that supposed to be a compliment," a small smug smile tugged at Morgan's lips, one she quelled instantly. Tom Riddle was the enemy, not someone to joke around with. Especially now.

"Take it as you wish," Tom said absently, turning his head to look at her. "Now, then, I'll be getting what is mine." He took swift steps to her immobilized form. Morgan's heart began pounding against her chest as she tried to squirm away. It was helpless though. _She_ was helpless.

"Yours?" her voice rose in volume. "Are you crazy? It's mine. I don't recall you stalking Slytherin's dingy lair for the damn thing!" She forced herself to keep talking, desperately trying to delay the moment when Tom would reach into her pocket and take from her what she had worked so hard to find.

He didn't stop walking though, and soon he was standing right in front of her. "Have you forgotten who controls the basilisk, hmm? You would have died down there, if not for me."

Morgan glared into his dark eyes, "Excuse me, but I do believe it was Mr. Green who saved my life down there. Besides, I had the situation under control."

Tom's head fell back and he let out a controlled laugh, "And who, pray tell, was _Mr. Green_ working for? _Whose_ orders was the snake following?"

Realization flooded Morgan's gaze. "Oh," she pursed her lips.

"What? No thank you?"

A very small smile pulled the corners of Tom's lips up. It almost looked condescending. _It doesn't matter_ Morgan told herself silently. And it really didn't. She was sure that, had the situation called for it, Tom would've killed her without a second thought. Besides, he only saved her in the first place so she could bring the trinket up to him personally.

Tom cocked his head to the side, studying her unabashedly. Cautiously, and very slowly, he allowed his hand to ghost over her cheek. His eyes never strayed from her face, gauging her reaction.

Morgan was surprised by the trail of cold Tom's touch left in its wake. It was a like a live snake was slithering across her cheek. His hand brushed from her temple to her chin, and she tried to bite it.

"No. Touching," she growled almost incoherently.

"Does that bother you?"

"Keep your hands to yourself, and maybe I'll allow you to keep them."

Tom smirked in spite of himself, "Good to know." Though Morgan was pretty sure he wasn't referring to her comment about letting him keep his limbs.

"You know what, Tom Riddle, I don't like you." Morgan thrust out her chin defiantly. "You're a sick evil bastard. And I can't wait to see the day when you'll keel over and die."

Anger twisted Tom's eyes, "That won't happen," he said lowly. "Ever. Not with this." His hand darted down into Morgan's skirt pocket, pushing the material against her thigh as he fisted the gem. When he pulled it out it seemed as if time had stopped moving. No longer was he focused on Morgan and their conversation. He only had eyes for the trinket, eyes tinted with red. They caressed every single one of the precious metal's contours. "Beautiful," he breathed softly.

"Oh yes, gorgeous," Morgan growled. She was glad she was under the body-bind curse now, because if she wasn't, she was sure she would have been shaking. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to let mini-Voldemort simply _take_ whatever he wanted! Sure, the trinket from Salazar's statue wasn't the Founders Necklace, but it had to be pretty important if the sight of it lit up Riddle's face like that. And if it was important, that meant it was Morgan's job to keep it away from Tom.

The enormity of her utter failure stole the air from her lungs. Why? Why had Dumbledore sent _her_? She never did anything right, could never keep her mouth shut. She didn't have the abundance of knowledge that Hermione had. She wasn't the spell master Harry was. Hell, even Ron Weasley or Ginny would have been a better choice. So why? Why her!?

"Now," Tom's attention was drawn once again to Morgan's frozen form. "I'm afraid I_ will_ have to give you detention." He smiled darkly, "Detention helping a Prefect plan the Christmas feast. Every year one Prefect is chosen to complete the job, and tomorrow I will volunteer to do so. That should give us plenty of time to talk privately. I am very curious as to why you went into the Chamber in the first place." He paused, "Among other things, of course."

Morgan gritted her teeth together. "Go to hell. I'll never tell you anything." She spat at the Riddle's feet. "Prick."

"Charming," Riddle remarked dryly. "And you will, believe me."

Just then, the bathroom door squeaked open. "Riddle, are you in here?"

A dark scowl flashed across Tom's face. He pointed one finger at Morgan, "Not a word."

"There you are. You haven't checked in after your rounds and—" Minerva stopped mid-sentence, her brown eyes flashing. "—what's going on here?" She looked from Morgan, still under the body-bind curse, to Tom, standing completely still with his wand withdrawn.

"I was doing my rounds on the second floor when I saw Ms. Hume," Tom explained smoothly. He thrust his wand back in his pocket, "She ran when she saw me, and I chased her here, where she tried hitting me with a curse. I responded accordingly."

Morgan forced herself to remain calm, to not start swearing until her breath was gone from her body.

The Head-Girl glared at the two Slytherin's, "So you hit her with a body-bonding curse? Don't you think you should remove it now?"

Tom smiled thinly, "It would be a shame for her to run away again."

Minerva glowered before pulling out her wand and reversing the curse. Full mobility was instantly returned to Morgan's body, and she stiffly nodded in thanks to the Gryffindor.

"I do believe a detention is in order," McGonagall said clearly.

Morgan crossed her arms and sulked.

"I was just in the process of issuing one," Tom cut in. "To help with feast preparations in December."

Minerva sniffed in response, "I don't think so Riddle. The nature of her punishment is not for us to decide."

"Fine. Then let's take her to Slughorn."

"No, she'll go to Dumbledore, he's the Deputy Headmaster."

"So?" Tom's tone went down an octave, his temper rising. "Slughorn is her Head of House. _He_ is in charge of her punishment."

"You said she tried to curse you, Riddle. That is a serious offence. One that must be dealt with from a higher power." Minerva smiled evenly, "Surely you know the rules by now."

Whether it was from humiliation or rage, Tom's cheeks flushed darkly, "Very well then. Am I to assume _you_ will be escorting her, Head Girl?"

Oh, a battle of wills. Morgan hid her smile in the crook of her arm as she listened to the insults hidden in their words. Minerva and Tom seemed to share an equal hatred of each other.

"You assume correctly," McGonagall replied back curtly. She grabbed Morgan's forearm and began towing her out of the bathroom. "Your done for tonight, Riddle," she called back over her shoulder.

Morgan cast a smug glance backwards, only to see Tom staring impassively back at her, his hands stuck in his pockets.

---

"Two weekends going out in the forest with Kettleburn," Violetta murmured before dinner Monday night, "perish the thought."

Morgan rolled her eyes, "your sympathy is much appreciated." She glanced over her history book in the Slytherin Common Room, though she really didn't retain any of the information she read.

"I will not offer sympathy when it is not needed," Violetta answered back from her position on a leather couch. "I expect you'll actually _enjoy_ going out there at night."

"You know me too well."

"No, you're just very predictable." The blond witch tapped her quill against a piece of parchment, "I also expect Dumbledore gave you that detention purposely. He seems to favor you."

"Who wouldn't favor me?" Morgan tittered back.

"Any sensible individual."

"Someone's in a particularly good mood this morning," Morgan noted, acknowledging the small smile on Violetta's lips. It was barely noticeable, but there nonetheless.

"Caldwell has insisted upon taking me out this Saturday for my seventeenth birthday." Morgan could tell Violetta was having a hard time concealing her excitement with a nonchalant tone.

"That boy just never gives up."

"No, he doesn't." This time, there was blatant fondness tied to Violetta's words.

Morgan grinned as the clock tower chimed, indicating the beginning of dinner. "Well then, I guess I'll leave you to talk to Caldwell about your date over mashed potatoes." She stood out of her seat and pulled her bag over her shoulders.

Her friend nodded, "You won't be at dinner."

It wasn't a question. It was a knowing statement.

"I'm going to go outside. Relax a bit."

"At least bring a coat." Violetta said dismissively.

"Dually noted," Morgan said in farewell, though she did not bring the extra article of clothing with her. Instead she pulled her school robes tighter about herself as she shuffled through the castle and out a side entryway. The October wind bit and snapped at her exposed skin as she made her way over to her favorite oak tree, the darkness wrapping around her pleasantly. She sat down quickly, gathering the fabric of her clothes about herself. The air was crisp, clearing her senses of the perfume and cologne streaked corridors.

Speaking of such, the dull scent of some sharp cologne assaulted her nose, and she looked up to see a figure bundled in a Gryffindor scarf making their way to the tree. When the bulky figure finally came up beside Morgan, they sat down swiftly and pulled a jar from the folds of their cloak. A small and warming ball of fire glowed from within it.

"Hello Hume," James said simply. He placed the jar between the two of them and leaned against the tree. His dark green eyes glanced about them anxiously, though Morgan wasn't sure why; the wind was blowing flurries of dead leaves in all directions, obscuring most things from their vision. Not to mention, the lit castle was their only beacon of light besides the small bewitched jar.

"Uh. Hi." Morgan rubbed her hands together for warmth, angling them towards the small fire. "Not to be mean, but this is really rather random." It had been a few weeks since James had said a word to her. It wasn't out of dislike that they kept their distance, more simply because neither of them had a purpose to seek the other out.

"What have you been doing these days?" James' bare hands rubbed the scar on his cheek absently. "I haven't spoken with you in awhile. Charlus and Kayden have not either."

"The usual." You know, scouring secret under ground tunnels, fending off a basilisk, brewing illegal potions, and running from the darkest wizard of the world. Yes. The usual. "What about you?"

James drew his knees up to his chest and draped his long arms over them. "Same I guess…" he trailed off uncertainly.

An awkward silence descended upon the two and Morgan suppressed a sigh. Why did people always have to be so difficult? "Look James, I know there's a reason you're out here. So you might as well just come out and say it."

The huge Gryffindor scowled, "Fine," he snapped. "I hate this school and everyone in it."

Morgan paused for a long time, "That's not a very Gryffindor thing to say." Her unhelpful response seemed to goad James further.

"These…_idiots_…these stick waving fucking idiots!" His fists clenched around themselves.

"May I remind you, you're one of these so called, 'stick waving idiots'." Morgan supplied unemotionally. "I'm just saying."

"You don't get it!" James cried out, jumping to his feet. "I'm not! I'm not one of them. I'm a fucking filthy Mudblood," he said the word with so much contempt that Morgan winced. "I'm dirt to these people. Dirt."

"But you're not dirt."

"You're right," James said steely, "I'm not." Rage contorted his features into an ugly mask, "_They're_ the dirt. _You're_ dirt. You contemptuous, self-centered brats! All of you! You all-powerful fucking bastards!" He was breathing heavily now, his huge arms quivering. "I hate all of you."

Morgan didn't reply, instead she began tracing patterns in the dirt with her finger. It was funny, how only a few weeks ago she was here seeking condolence from Violetta, and now James was searching for the same thing. "Why do you hate us?" Her eyes didn't stray from the ground.

"You all claim you're better than Muggles! More powerful then them! Then why not help! WHY NOT? Don't you fucking see that there's a war going on out there? That people are dying! DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT! Say a fucking spell to make it go away! You can stop it! Stop the war. Stop the killing. But you don't _care_. Muggles are beneath you! We're dirt. But you know what; I'll tell you something, we're better than you! If we had the power to, _we'd _stop the war. We'd stop people from dying." James raked his hands over his head furiously.

"And then, while I spend every fucking waking moment worrying about my family, you mock me for checking the newspapers for bombings! Not that the fucking Prophet would mention much of that. Because who cares if a couple thousand Muggles died yesterday? It doesn't matter to you. You don't care." His low voice cracked and he stopped pacing. "You don't."

Morgan looked up at him from the ground. "What happened to your family James?" She knew something had to have brought on his unquenchable anger.

"I don't know." His voice was quiet now, and his features filled with despair. "Friday morning there were periodic bombing throughout all of London. I've tried contacting my mother, father, and little sister, but I haven't heard anything back Nothing." As if in a daze, James sat back down again. Morgan was surprised to see tears streaking down his scarred cheek. His rough hands wiped the moisture away quickly.

"I wish I could go back in time," he whispered quietly. "Back to when I first got my letter from Hogwarts. I'd reject it, say no. I'd rather be with my family right now, then here with these self-righteous bastards. At least then I could protect them, take care of them. I can't do anything here."

The tears still streamed down his face and Morgan tried to rub the feeling back into her arms. Her whole body had gone cold with sympathy for the usually strong Gryffindor.

But what could she say? What could anyone say, really? Nothing. She could offer no verbal comfort, no reassuring words. At this point they would be considered lies. Factually speaking, there was a good chance James' family had been killed during the bombings or seriously injured.

Instead, she scooted next to the older wizard and hugged him. He was at least three times her size, but still his muscled arms pulled her into an embrace. They constricted around her side, seeking any form of comfort they could find. His head ducked down and buried itself into her hair and neck, tears soaking her exposed skin there.

"Wh-what if they're dead?" James choked into her. Her body shook with the vibrations from his voice. "What do I do? What can I do? William—oh god, William won't—he won't…"

Morgan's face took on a grim expression while her frail arms cradled James head. "William is a very tough kid," she muttered over the wind. "He is a Darley after all. But we're not sure of anything yet, so there's no need to think about that now."

James tightened his hold around her, and if she had not been used to painful embraces—thanks to Tom—then she would have yelped. It was almost as if the Gryffindor was trying to meld her into his own body. The only benefit was that she was no longer cold.

It was much later when James finally relaxed his hold on her, self-consciously drawing away and rubbing his hands against his face. Morgan suspected that he had fallen asleep for a little while, though she spent most of the time watching the stars.

"I-uh-I guess," James' voice was much rougher after the tears, and thick with sleep. "I mean…" He brushed down his jacket and avoided Morgan's gaze.

"Don't worry," Morgan said simply, hugging her chest with her tiny arms. The lack of James' body warmth hit her like a ton of bricks. And soon she was shivering very obviously in the colder night air. "I mean it."

A very grateful and small smile plucked James' lips up. "Thanks."

"There is nothing to thank me for," Morgan answered sincerely.

James nodded before he blushed.

"What's wrong?" Morgan crossed her stretched out legs together. She was five seconds away from sprinting back to the castle, and she was pretty sure her teeth were clattering together.

"You're freezing," James muttered ashamedly. He took obvious notice of her skirt and thin cloak. "Jeeze." He peeled off his huge and thick jacket, leaning over and tucking it all around Morgan's body. Luckily, he had a wool sweater on.

"James, normally I would yell at you to take back your jacket but I am freezing. So thanks." Morgan grinned and found she could almost wrap the thing around her twice.

"The least I can do," James said. "And I just wanted to let you know; about all that yelling I did earlier…I don't think you're dirt. You're different. And not just from the Slytherins, but from everyone."

Morgan waved the comment away and pushed herself to her feet. James' jacket came past mid-thigh, and she ducked her head into its fabric. The wind was picking up. "Right, well, its getting late so let's get back to the castle."

"Sure," James threw one arm around Morgan's shoulder and pulled her into his side. "Still cold Leah?"

Morgan angled her body towards his own, "Not nearly as bad as I was," she answered back, playfully tugging on the scarf wrapped around his neck.

"Next time bring a coat."

"I'll see what I can do."

To any other student onlooker, the outlandish display of affection would have looked inappropriate and scandalous. A student would assume something forbidden was going on between the Mudblood Gryffindor and Pureblood Slytherin. And that's exactly what Lucretia Black did.

---

"Well, at least you're wearing the right clothes," Kettleburn said appreciatively. "Can't say I've had any female students do the same when given detention with me."

Morgan shrugged, "I like the clothes, actually." She pulled her leather padded jacket tight about herself and checked to make sure her boots were tied up tightly. Her black and baggy slacks were tucked into them. She still had not gotten the art of transfiguring clothes her size, so they hung off her frame. The jacket, however, fit perfectly, as it was provided by Dumbledore. The padded leather was enchanted, so that practically no item could pierce it. The fact that he thought she needed such protection, though, unsettled her.

The Care of Magical Creatures Professor pulled out a lamp and lit it with his wand. He handed it to the huge half-giant Morgan knew was Hagrid. "Right, well you and Hagrid will take one half of the forest and I'll take the other," he said simply. "What we're looking for is a fatally injured Hippogriff. I've found its blood scattered about heavily."

Morgan nodded.

"When you find it, shoot up green sparks into the air with your wand. If you encounter any trouble at all, shoot up red sparks. It's approximately 8 o'clock, I'll expect you back here at 11." Kettleburn took out his own nine inch wand and started off brusquely into the left part of the forest.

Morgan was left standing in the dark with Hagrid, unsure of whether or not she should ask if he wanted to lead. The big teenager was gripping the lantern with his trashcan sized fist, gazing into the patch of forest on their right.

"Well let's go eh?"

Morgan was pleasantly shocked to hear the friendly tone of his voice. Ever since her first day at Hogwarts she had been trying to speak with the apprentice caretaker. But he always vanished off after class stealthily.

"Yes, let's," Morgan smiled at took off into the dark trees. She took confident steps, having traveled through the Forbidden Forest many times. Hagrid kept a steady pace with her, carefully stepping over tree branches and tree trunks as they delved deeper into the darkness.

"You've been tryin' to talk ter me," Hagrid said abruptly, after walking for fifteen minutes. "Always after class."

Morgan shrugged, "Yeah, I have. I just wanted to talk to you, to see if you were a student."

"I'm not." Hagrid said sadly. "My wand got snapped after I was expelled just last year. But yer see, it wasn't my fault. Was a huge misunderstandin'."

Morgan forced back a resentful smile as Hagrid launched into a full narritive of his tale. She waited until after he was finished to comment. "That's terrible. Riddle is a bad apple."

Hagrid shook his head, coming to a stop by a fallen tree trunk. "S'not true. He was only doing what he thought was right. He believed Aragog was doin' all the killin' and he did what he thought he had ta." The half-giant placed his lantern down on the ground and stretched out. Morgan stood by a thin tree, her arms crossed.

Jesus, everyone thought Tom was a goddamn saint. It was ridiculous. He was evil. And yet people who he had done wrong to were defending him. Devious little fuck-up…

"Yer know, we really don't haveta go further into the forest," Hagrid ventured out after a few moments of silence. "Me and Kettleburn know that Hippogriff is long dead. He jus' didn't know what else ter do for yer detention, so he told us to go lookin' for it."

"Oh," Morgan said blankly. "Okay then. Let's just talk."

"Yer want to?" The surprise in Hagrid's voice made her heart hurt. The poor guy was treated like a complete outcast. He didn't even expect to encounter people who desired to speak with him. She knew the feeling.

"Yeah, we'll keep talking." Morgan assured him. "Right after I climb this tree." She jumped, grabbing the branch of the tree she had been leaning on before hauling herself up. She nimbly climbed through the braches, testing how high she could go.

Hagrid's booming voice followed her all the way up, and her own loud responses filled the harsh night air with friendly laughter.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**A/N:** I have absolutely nothing to say. Except that I really hope you guys enjoy this one. It was one of my favorites to write. Oh, wait, I do have to say something important: **Things here get pretty gory. Just a little heads up. I should have probably warned you about the excessive swearing in the previous chapter, but oh well. We're all adults here ( mind-set wise, that is (: )**

Disclaimer: RAISE YOU HANDS IF YOU HATE DISCLAIMERS BECAUSE IT IS BLANTANTLY OBVIOUS THAT WE ON THIS SITE DON'T OWN ANYTHING!

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen: Dying?**

The nine hours Morgan spent in the forest that weekend were the highlight of her school year. Even though most students considered it a slow form of torture, (why spend three hours each day in the dirt when you could be discussing upcoming galas and balls?), Morgan considered it a blessing. Her and Hagrid had spent hours finding new trees to climb and talked about any subject that popped into their minds. It was refreshing. Especially since Morgan was very fond of the school's future caretaker.

For that reason, the next week passed by with an agonized slowness for her. Each minute seemed like an hour, and each hour a day. Even though James often walked her to her classes and spent afternoons arguing about Quidditch with her, Friday just couldn't come fast enough.

Tom Riddle had disappeared again. And the only time she could recall seeing him was when she ran into him in the hall. He had been in a rush, and brushed off their collision without a second glance.

Weird rumors were circulating around the school too, ones about James courting her, whatever the hell that meant. When she asked Darley about the whispered conversations regarding them, he shrugged the topic off without a word. The Slytherins were particularly nasty to her now because of it, and more times than not she would find Gryffindors conveniently gathered around her. She suspected that Kayden and Charlus were responsible for the situation, though she couldn't say she was opposed to it.

The weather was ferociously cold, and she found herself dressing in thick sweaters and stockings. Because of this, her stored supply of the concealing potion was being subjected to neglect.

It had been nearly a month since she done a Metamorphmagus transformation, too. And soon she stopped anticipating the sudden rush of jitters that accompanied one. The fact that she could get used to such a thing terrified her beyond belief, scared her so much that the thought brought frustrated tears to her eyes. How could you stop _being_ a part of yourself? It didn't make sense.

All of that, coupled with piles of homework, caused Morgan to be overcome with happiness when Friday night finally rolled around. Giddy with excitement, she threw on thick sweaters and slacks as soon as classes ended. She didn't feel the need to bring Dumbledore's leather jacket with her anymore, since she and Hagrid hardly encountered anything dangerous.

As soon as darkness fell, Morgan rushed out to the edge of the forest, her wand already out and lit. Hagrid stood waiting for her, Professor Kettleburn a little off to the side of him. When she finally reached the two they offered her warm greetings.

"Ready to search for that injured Hippogriff, you two?" Kettleburn winked.

Morgan smiled, "Oh yes, I believe there was a particular tree that I am sure the Hippogriff passed by."

"Then you better go check it out!" The Professor chuckled heartily before stealing off towards his cabin. Morgan tugged Hagrid's sleeve and towed them both into the trees.

"How's yer week been?" Hagrid wondered, matching Morgan's large steps with some of his own.

"Pretty bad," Morgan answered back honestly. "If you haven't been able to tell, I'm eager to get lost in here."

"Good ter hear," the half-giant supplied. The duo began to steadily dig through the trees, climbing large oaks and pausing by small streams to catch their breath. A half-hour into the duration of Morgan's detention, Hargid caught sight of an especially fat oak.

"I think she can hold me weight," he muttered out, a bit embarrassed. Because of his size, the expelled Gryffindor usually watched Morgan jump from tree to tree, even though she encouraged him to try and climb as many as he could.

Morgan studied the tree Hagrid pointed out, noticing that it was extremely wide— her arms would not have even come close to fitting around the trunk—and that its braches were thick. "Go for it," she smiled, brushing the dirt off her hands and onto her pants.

The half-giant nodded, "Right," he murmured apprehensively. "I'll climb this thing, and you go look fer a stream fer us to sit at when I'm done."

"Okay," Morgan waved him good luck and wandered into the thicket. The impending silence of the forest encompassed her as she pushed through deeper and deeper. The trees around her were mostly bare, autumn having stripped them of their leaves, so the moon gave her a decent amount of light. She pulled her hair into a high pony-tail and cocked her head to the side, listening for any sign of a stream.

It took a few minutes, but soon enough the tall-tale splashing of running water led her back to the right, closer to the castle. Her footsteps echoed loudly on the dead leaves beneath her feet, and she casually picked her way through winter brushes.

Five minutes later, her feet guided her into a clearing. It was roughly circular in size, the leaves in the area worn down with many footprints. The sight puzzled her, she was sure Hagrid had never been here, or else he would have told her to find _this_ particular stream. So who had been?

Morgan cautiously strolled along the stream running through the clearings perimeter, her thoughts frazzled as she dully fingered her pocketed wand. She would have to tell Hagrid about the clearing, something might be wrong, really, or—

She barely registered an out-of-place whooshing sound before she felt the pain. It stemmed from her arm, shooting through her entire body in spasms. Another whistle of air and the pain doubled.

Morgan's vision swam, and ringing sang through her ears. She blinked rapidly and pulled her arm closer to her chest. It was a bad idea.

Two arrows jutted right out of her arm. One of them struck into the tender flesh of her left elbow-joint, pushing clean through, the other was jammed into her forearm. Blood spilled from her wounds, blood and a curious clear liquid. Whoever had attacked her had been specifically aiming for her left arm, her arm with the Dark Mark, her wand arm.

"Human," there was the clattering of hooves. "We have warned you to cease coming to this clearing. It is sacred to us."

The words sounded like gibberish to her, and she weakly looked upwards. A collection of centaurs circled around her loosely. All had their arrows cocked and ready to fire again.

"I-I-I" it was a struggle to get the words out. The burning in her arm increased, it was turning the skin on her arm to ash, it felt, searing through her nerves. And worse yet, it was slowly traveling to her chest. "Never been here before," she finally choked out.

She rubbed her head with her right hand. Panic began to set in. Fuck, why did it hurt so badly?

"The arrows have been fatally poisoned," the biggest centaur revealed. "You will be dead within hours. We warned you this would happen."

No you didn't! Morgan felt like screaming, but she couldn't. For some reason an utter and total sense of calm was overcoming her senses, dulling them out. She lost all feeling in her left arm.

"It's not the same human!" Another centaur suddenly gasped. "Anon! It's a different human."

"Humans are all the same," the centaur named Anon growled. "It was her foolish choice to come in this clearing."

"Perhaps uneducated is a better word," a calmer centaur tossed in.

Morgan was seeing stars. The arrow was still pumping poison into her system. She glanced at the two arrows woefully. They had to come out, fast.

"Don't do it, human girl," the wise centaur commanded. "You will black out from the pain, and then all will be lost."

"Let us leave her," Anon growled. "You could all smell the dark magic soaking the pores of her skin. She reeks of evil."

"That could mean nothing," the calm voice said back. "She is from Hogwarts, we have a treaty…"

"Damn the treaty to hell. They've been taking our land. We leave the girl to die. That is the final order. No one will find her body; it will burn up before the sun rises." Anon stomped his hooves with authority, no one objected.

One by one, the centaurs filed out, leaving Morgan in the middle of the clearing. She had long since lost focus of the conversation the horse-men had been having. Her entire attention was concentrated on preparing herself for pain. The calm-voice said she would black out. She was willing to test that.

Because if she left the arrows in, more poison would continuously flow into her body. Besides, arrows were hard to hide. She couldn't very well walk up to Hagrid and lie to him if they were bulging out from her arm.

She had already decided she wasn't going to let the giant know she was injured. The arrows were buried in the flesh of her left arm, the one with the Dark Mark. If anyone were to find out about it, she would be in deep trouble. So she would just have to run up to the Room of Requirement, grab a vile of the concealing potion, and then go to the Mediwitch. Simple.

But first…

She eyed the arrows, her vision blurred. Her arm felt like nothing. She couldn't move it even if she tried. So it shouldn't hurt that bad…

She gripped the first arrow, the one jutting straight through her elbow, down by the arrowhead. It would be easier to pull the wooded shaft all the way through her arm then to pull the metal tipped arrowhead back out.

Morgan took deep breaths before grabbing a nearby stick and biting down on it. If the pain was as intense as implied, she didn't want to bite off her tongue screaming. Her ears were still blaring. One…two…three.

She yanked with all the conscious strength in her body. The wood splintered a few times in the joint, getting stuck, so she had to pull again and again. When the arrow finally popped out, pieces of broken tissue and bone poked through the gaping hole in her arm.

The pain was like nothing she had ever felt before. It literally pulled her arm to pieces before traveling straight to her heart. It compressed her ribs together, sliced through to her head, pounded in her ears. Tears streamed down her face and her vision danced. She blinked and opened her eyes. Only this time, when she looked at her wound again, she saw maggots crawling out of it and pieces of her flesh falling away.

She forced back a scream. Hallucinations, the clear part of her brain yelled. Get it together.

"No, no, no, no," she moaned around the stick. She didn't want to do it again. She didn't want to pull the second arrow out. She couldn't!

But even as she thought this, her hand moved to the wooden arrow, not caring how much pain she was already in. She gripped the metal tip steadily. And then…pulled sharply downwards.

She was going to die. That was it. The pain was simply beyond words. She spared a glance down and saw bugs of all sizes squirming underneath her skin, pinching and biting, slicing and burning. She spat the stick out of her mouth and let out a hoarse scream. She had to end it, now.

She stumbled to her feet and blindly stole through the forest. She crashed into trees and fell down, but always found the resolve to get back up again. She had to move. Had to get out of there.

When the castle came into view it took all of her strength to stay on her feet. Her head was in two pieces, her vision was teetering on the edge of oblivion, and her arm…she closed her eyes. Can't think about it. Room of Requirement.

Clipped thoughts gave her the blind guidance she needed to make it to the seventh floor. She was lucky in the sense that everyone was at a late dinner, so when she stumbled into walls and stemmed the flow of blood from her arm with her torso, no one was there to notice.

When she finally reached the Room of Requirement, she thrust the door open, gaining entrance to her sanctuary. The delusions were too much though, and she forgot why she had come there in the first place. Wasn't there something she needed?

It didn't matter. The burning in her arm only intensified. It had to have been on fire. Nothing could ever possibly hurt that bad. Her whole body was slick with a fevered sweat and she blindly began throwing all her layers of sweaters on the floor. One by one, she could only focus on the task at hand. All other thought abandoned her.

When she finally lay in only her bra and slacks she collapsed. There was no more energy left. This was it.

Her head hit the carpet and she stared at the ceiling. Something told her she should feel sorry this was happening. That she couldn't just die. But why not? She couldn't remember.

Vibrations rattled through her head, and she knew someone was in the room with her. But then there was only darkness.

---

Morgan's eyelids felt heavy, way too heavy to be doing any opening anytime soon. She was comfy, anyways. So why should she move? Her body unconsciously snuggled deeper into the blankets and pillows. The bed was way better than the one she had in the dorms, and definitely better than the couch in the Room of Requirement…

Her eyes flashed open. Memories of pain flashed through her head and she sat upwards quickly. She went to rip up the sleeve of her shirt when she realized…she wasn't wearing one. She blinked.

She was dangerously uncovered and vulnerable. And she noticed two wide scars adorning her left forearm.

What the hell happened?

Her eyes scanned the room quickly and she instantly reached for her wand, only to find she didn't have it.

A real shame, too, since there, sitting on her couch with his feet propped up against a small table, Tom Riddle sat, his eyes scanning the pages of an open book.

"What are you doing?" Her voice was a weak whisper, but Tom heard her regardless. He snapped the book shut deftly before standing up and stretching. He was taking his time.

Morgan noticed the condition he was in. His school tie was long forgotten somewhere, and the sleeves of his button-down shirt were rolled up to his elbows. His hair no longer sat neatly parted on his head; instead it was in a state of disarray.

"I was reading…"— his prolonged answer caused Morgan to grip the blankets of the new bed anxiously— "A rather interesting diary…about an artifact collector, whose last entries seem to be about a necklace." He looked at her critically, "So I do not have to ask why you were in the Chamber a week ago, though I must say I have tons of new things to inquire to you about."

"Get out." Morgan wrapped the thick blanket around herself tightly before rolling out of the bed and standing up. Her bare feet touched the carpeted floor.

Tom Riddle leaned against the fireplace in the room and put his hands in his pockets, "Is that any way to treat someone who has saved your life twice now?"

"What do you mean?" Morgan said, trying to put as much power as possible into the words. She looked around the room through narrowed eyes, seeing that it was just the same as ever minus the addition of the bed.

"What do I mean? I mean that had I not been out of the Great Hall during dinner I would have never seen you stumbling up the stairs bleeding. Nor would I have seen you come in this room—speaking of which, one of my questions is how you know about it—and then I would have not healed you. And then you would be dead. Another hour or so and the poison from the centaurs arrow would have killed you."

"How do you know about the centaurs arrow poison?" Morgan demanded.

"That's a question for another time. And believe me, we'll have time. But right now, you see, a very confused half-giant is still looking for you in the Forbidden Forest and very unpleasant inquiries will arise if you do not find him in the next 40 minutes."

"How long have I been sleeping?" Morgan sat back down on the bed slowly, testing out her balance.

"I would say about an hour. I healed everything rather easily, considering the poison in your arm wasn't technically fatal. It's designed to cause hallucinations and pain, but not kill, so I was able to withdraw it from your blood stream. You pulled the arrows out neatly, so there wasn't that much blood loss."

"Right, well then, I better go find Hagrid." Morgan precariously jumped from the bed, letting her feet touch the ground again as she searched for her sweaters.

Seconds later, though, she felt Tom's hand gripping her shoulder, "While some questions can be answered another time, some need to be answered now."

There was something in his tone that petrified Morgan to the spot. His hands, without asking permission, went to grip the blanket wrapped around her shoulders and pulled it off quickly. The strength in her arms had not yet returned for her to sufficiently fight back.

Tom dropped the blanket to the floor without a word. Morgan instantly crossed her arms over her chest, feeling far too uncovered in only slacks that hung off her frame and a bra. But Tom Riddle wouldn't have any of it. He gripped her forearms and peeled them away from her body, pushing them down to her side.

"Don't move," Tom said seriously, his tone dark.

His free hand darted to her collarbone, and lightly traced the blunt scar there. His fingers stretched all the way over to her shoulder and back again. Then, he trailed it down to her chest, where the cold hands passed over the scarred top of her breasts, down her stomach, and to her hip bone. He pressed down on the end of that scar sharply, where it sunk deeper into her skin, before letting his whole hand skim across the surface of her stomach.

Had it been any other man, Morgan would have freaked. She would have kicked and screamed and fought until she was dead. No one was meant to touch her in that way. But that was the thing; there was nothing remotely intimate about Tom's hands. Even when they curved of her breasts his eyes were dark and calculating, simply interested in the scarred tissue and nothing else. He didn't care that they were carved onto a personal space in her body, it didn't matter.

But even so, Morgan felt the need to tell him to keep his hands to himself. They were way too cold. "Had your fun, Riddle?"

Tom looked up to her face, though his hand stayed on her stomach, "How did you get these three scars?" He wondered aloud. "They were made with dark magic, and after so much time, can't be healed. Whoever cursed you wanted to kill you."

Well that was definitely the truth. Amycus _did_ want to kill her.

"Do you remember the spell?"

"Yes," Morgan answered back coldly, shifting uncomfortably. "Something like that is kinda hard to forget."

"Tell me," Tom's eyes shone. "That spell, it must be amazing."

Morgan didn't answer for a long time and Tom's fingers grew impatient, digging into the scarred tissue of her torso instead of smoothly sliding over it. "_Sectumsempra_."

The spell slid through her lips without any consequential thought, besides the one urging her to get out of the room. Giving Tom what he wanted seemed to be the quickest way.

"Good." Tom pursed his lips. "Ingenious, really." Morgan went to pick up the blanket from the floor again when Riddle pushed her backwards into a wall. "No, no, no, one more important question."

Tom's dark eyes flickered to her left forearm.

No! If there was one thing he couldn't know about, it was that! She hugged her arm to her chest tightly and shook her head. "Hell not, back the fuck off." She jumped from the wall and searched the area frantically for her wand, but Tom's strong hands pulled her back.

"You should really learn to cooperate," Tom grumbled, as if the whole ordeal was annoying. He held her to the wall with one arm spread out against her whole waist, while the other one forcefully ripped her left forearm from her side.

He straightened her arm out and examined the Dark Mark. It moved slightly under his scrutiny. "This mark…it's a binding mark," Tom muttered, "Very powerful. Whoever you swore your allegiance to…they own you."

That was also basically true.

"So tell me, is it Grindelwald? Are you one of his spies? Everything would make sense then, but it doesn't seem right. You're either the best spy out there, or the worst one." Tom paused in his musings before looking up at her, expecting an answer. "Well? You can either tell me, or I can make you tell me." He released her forearm and picked a bottle from his pants pockets. A clear liquid glistened in it, "Truth Serum, since we're on a time limit. Normally, using this isn't any fun. But under the circumstances…" He smiled thinly.

Morgan's options were severely limited. She had to answer the question, or else he'd hit her with the serum and she'd blab about the whole future, which was against Dumbledore's orders, not to mention the time traveling laws. As for what answer to give…She couldn't say she was allied with Grindelwald, that gave Tom the option of turning her in to the Headmaster. So who? Who could she say she was undoubtedly tied too? Who could she say she swore her loyalty to without raising suspicions?

Suddenly, she had her dreadful answer.

She turned her head away from Tom and looked at the wall. She could feel his breath on her neck. "The heir of Slytherin."

It made perfect sense. She could pretend she had once been a Pureblood maniac who swore loyalty to Salazar's heir. And that heir, though she would have had no way of knowing it, happened to coincidentally be Tom. It was a shaky, illogical, and dangerous plan, but a plan nonetheless.

"Look at me," Tom's voice was dead serious, mingled with something she couldn't place. But she didn't disobey the order. When she turned her head to him she saw that he had slipped the Truth Serum vile back into his pocket. He picked up her hand and leaned over the marking, and then, very cautiously, he touched it with the pad of his thumb.

Instantly the mark moved rapidly, the snake ingrained on her skin twisting itself around the skull. The skin of her arm lightly hissed with a burning sensation.

Tom looked up at her, his eyes flashing red, "Me," he said, a grin pulling across his face. "You're mine." He was the happiest and scariest she had ever seen him, his eyes bright and signs of fatigue gone, his smile like that of a child's on Christmas.

"No." Morgan spat out, "I did this before I knew who the heir was. I don't want it anymore. It doesn't count."

Tom's hand shot down to the mark again, it sizzled. "This says differently."

"I don't care if my skin burns whenever you touch it. You don't get anything from me."

Rage burned in Riddle's black and red eyes. In that moment he was Voldemort, "I can get whatever I want from you," he said darkly, "Even if you don't want me to take it." He pushed her further into the wall, pinning her up with his own body, leaving his hands free.

Morgan pushed against him with her hands, "Get off me," her voice, distorted with panic, came out like a wounded squeak. Their conversation from the previous week flashed in her head:

"_No. Touching," she growled almost incoherently._

_"Does that bother you?" _

_"Keep your hands to yourself, and maybe I'll allow you to keep them." _

_Tom smirked in spite of himself, "Good to know." Though Morgan was pretty sure he wasn't referring to her comment about letting him keep_ _his limbs_.

Tom's pale hand gripped her chin, and before she could do anything else, his lips crashed into hers. The kiss was a bruising and controlling one. There was no affection, no happiness, only anger and the need to prove something.

Pride kept Morgan from opening up her mouth, even when Tom bit into her bottom lip. It wasn't until seconds later, when his free hand dug into her Dark Mark—causing her skin to burn with his anger—that she gasped in pain. That was when Riddle deepened the kiss, pushing her against the wall tighter, as opposed to holding her like she was used to seeing in romantic movies.

Anger and humiliation built up in her, and she locked her arm around Tom's neck to give her more leverage. Pulling herself up to his height, she bit down into his lip sharply, fighting for control. Tom fought back harder, and pretty soon she felt as if her whole body was going to crumble under the pressure he was exerting on her.

They broke apart then, and even though Morgan felt the kiss had lasted hours, it could have only been thirty seconds. She turned her head away, disgusted, and spat some of her own and Tom's blood out of her mouth. Her lip was bleeding and so was his.

Tom didn't move, his head bowed over onto her shoulder and neck, his heavy breathing warming her skin. She tried to regain her bearings. She could never remember having been kissed that way before. Sure, there was a Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw or two, but nothing like that. Nothing that painful.

A strong hand grabbed her cheek, and slowly turned her towards Tom again. But unlike the past ten or so minutes, the touch was softer and gentle. When Morgan looked at Riddle she saw his lips were coated with a very small amount of blood too, and that she had disheveled his hair even more when she kissed him back. His eyes had dulled down to their normal dark color and he looked at her very seriously.

"Mine," he annunciated clearly, his cheeks flushed with red. "Remember that."


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**A/N: **So I'm sitting here and there are a TON of things I want to say. But I am SO DAMN TIRED. I'll say them anyways: this chapter was a week late because last week was my sweet sixteen and I was in no condition to write. I'm not sure how I feel about it, but be sure to tell me how you do. There are a tons of things I secretly snuck in here, like some foreshadowing and other juicy literary things. GOD I AM TIRED. Right, anywho, I'll try to answer reviews tomorrow during school, but I still want to thank everyone who has taken the time to review and faved/alerted. SO TIRED.

Disclaimer: HGEAHIGEILILIGNIGNIEALIDEIOEDIgjOJP#U()RT#U(ehiGEQ_)UTOQ I AM TIRED DAMMIT. ANNOYING DISCLAIMERS SHOULD FEAR ME.

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**Chapter Fourteen:**** The Biggest Fucking Idiots in History**

"I WAS THIS BLOODY CLOSE TO GOIN' TER GET KETTLEBURN! DO YA UNDERSTAND THAT?"

Morgan winced and drew her arms around herself, pretending to notice the night chill for the first time. "Hagrid, look I'm—"

The half-giant held up one large hand, a sure sign for Morgan to stop talking. "I was worried." Morgan's eyes widened when she realized extremely large tear drops were soaking Hagrid's beard. "I thought something had happened to ya."

Well, something _had_ happened to her. But that was beyond the point. Morgan looked down at the forest floor abashedly, "I'm sorry; I fell and hit my head. I know you told me to start looking for a stream, but then I saw this nice tree..." Her voice trailed off very believingly. "And then I fell out of it and smacked my head on a rock. I just woke up ten or so minutes ago."

Hagrid wiped his nose with the back of his ham-sized wrist, "Well, as long as yer okay I guess." He looked up at the moon with dark beady eyes, "Time ter go in now anyways," he said gruffly. "Tomorrow night, I ain't letting ya out of me sight. And ya said I was the clumsy one..."

Hagrid began leading the way back to the school, Morgan dutifully trailing behind him. Her small tongue unconsciously poked out of her mouth, running over her swollen bottom lip, still tasting the blood.

All of a sudden, she felt alone. So terribly alone. There was no Dumbledore's Army to turn to with her problems. She could tell no one in this time the truth, and no one in this time could offer her consolation.

Her hand reached forward and latched itself onto Hagrid, who's larger hand swallowed hers instantly. "Er...I don't want to fall," Morgan muttered, trying to justify the sudden contact.

Hagrid gave her hand a gentle squeeze, "Of course ya don't."

---

Tom Riddle glanced towards Leah indifferently, watching as a large Gryffindor pulled her to their house table. She followed the seventh year in a daze, her eyes locked onto the stone floor.

"Tom, you aren't eating, is everything okay?" Isabella touched his shoulder lightly, a worried smile masking her face. Everyone else at the Slytherin table politely averted their eyes.

Tom forced himself not to glare at the elegant hand touching him, "I'm fine, just tired."

"Of course you are," Isabella giggled. "It takes a lot of energy to be the best of the best."

The heir of Slytherin shrugged before allowing his eyes to slide over to the Gryffindor table once again. Leah was squished in between the large seventh year and a slighter student he knew to be a Potter. She wasn't eating and her hands were wringing themselves around each other in her lap.

A very light smirk touched his lips. Last night had affected more than she let on. It had been an unexpected turn of events, but not unwelcome in the least.

_Focus._

Tom frowned and let his eyes fall to the golden plate in front of him. Focus. There were other more important things to think about. Like the progress of his current endeavor. His back-up plan, should the Founders Necklace not deliver.

But it was hard. Leah Hume was an enigma. He couldn't figure her out. Normally, it was quite easy for him to break-down a person based on their wants. Their desires; should they be power, money, sex, or revenge; were very easy to play off of, to manipulate. But Leah, he couldn't figure out her motives. Why she did what she did. Or what it was she exactly _wanted_.

He didn't even know where she came from, exactly. How did she get those scars? And what about the glimpse of the orphanage he saw in her mind?

Not to mention that binding mark. The symbol on her arm was one of a very dark history, dating back to Salazar himself. But the magic used to _make_ the mark… that was interesting in itself. Whoever designed that spell was a genius. It inexplicitly attached the bearer to the intended person. It was the perfect way to ensure loyalty, to always keep tabs on someone.

And Leah was bound to _him_. The heir of Slytherin. He could hurt her with a single touch, bring her to the brink of destruction and then offer her a lifeline. The mere thought was intoxicating. So much control over the fate of someone.

He hadn't felt this way since manipulating the Muggle children at the damned orphanage. They thought they could push him around; well he could end their existence with the utterance of a few words. It was amazing to see the terrified glances they shot at him. It was power.

And Leah was well on her way to behaving the same way. Though controlling her took more unorthodox ways then he was used to. He had to assert his physical power over her; a spell didn't intimidate her, not in the desired way, at least.

Tom resisted the urge to touch his lips. He had spelled away the tenderness and swollenness, but he still felt her small mouth fighting against him. The rush of dominance when she pulled away and gave in was addicting. But definitely unorthodox.

_Focus._

Tom looked back up from his empty plate. The Gryffindor that had pulled Leah over to their table was wrapping his arm around her shoulders. Leah didn't react or notice at all, her head still bowed. The Gryffindor was not to be deterred, though, and his hand constricted around her thin shoulder comfortingly.

"Disgusting, isn't it?" Isabella interrupted his thoughts quietly. Her lithe body was turned towards his and she leaned in close. "Apparently that man, I think his name is James, wants to date Hume. A Slytherin with a Gryffindor, can you imagine? It's quite ridiculous." Isabella's hand went back to his shoulder, "Though Leah has never really been a good Slytherin."

Tom's hands moved to his lap where he traced the Marvolo ring with one long finger. He glared at James from across the Great Hall, his eyes taking special notice of the way the seventh year very discreetly tucked Leah tighter into his arms.

James was pawing his huge hands over something that didn't belong to him. The Gryffindor might as well been trying to steal Slytherin's ring. It annoyed Tom.

"It doesn't matter," Tom muttered.

Isabella nodded urgently, believing that Tom was finally beginning to contribute to the conversation. "You're right, what Leah Hume does has no affect on us whatsoever."

Tom ignored Isabella, though his hands tightened together at the notion of 'us'. She was bothersome to say the least, always begging him to show affection, always believing there was something more. In reality, Isabella only had one purpose, and she wasn't good at doing as she was told.

"I need to go now. You should leave to." Tom said very evenly, his fingers still trailing over the ring on his hand.

Isabella's made-up face fell, despair pooling up in her eyes. "Why, Tom? Why do you always do this to me? Don't you want me? Is this the only thing I'm good for?"

Tom Riddle climbed to his feet steadily, brushing down his neat and tidy clothes. He offered his hand to Isabella carefully, pulling her off their house bench. He gently led her out of the Great Hall and up to the seventh floor. Per routine, he covered the witch's eyes with his long hands and paced the length of the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy.

_'I need a place to keep a young witch entertained.' _Tom repeated the sentence over and over again in his head, until the door to the Room of Requirement appeared opposite of him. With Isabella's eyes still covered, he led her into a large room filled with books and parchment. Light music drifted throughout the room from an unknown source, and a large couch sat near the fireplace.

Isabella peeled Tom's hands off her eyes, not letting them go for several seconds. She gazed around the room, tears trailing down her soft and rosy cheeks. She turned to Tom Riddle, "I don't want to do this anymore," she finally said.

Tom's dark eyes filled with insincere comfort, "It won't be for long this time, Isabella, but I can't trust you anymore. The last time I let you out of this room, you went to breakfast and told everyone you haven't seen me for days. Lucretia asked me about where I had been a few hours later."

"I'm sorry," Isabella whispered, "But I was lonely. Books can hardly keep me entertained forever, Tom. I don't want to do this anymore. I thought…I thought that you wanted me for other things, that you actually liked me." Her hands went to his chest, where she let them sit hopefully.

Tom pulled them away from his body, "I told you what this was about a long time ago, Isabella."

"But I want more!" The tears streamed through her eyes faster then, "I want more from you."

Tom looked away from the sobbing mess in front of him, disgusted. "Stop being ridiculous." He turned his back to her and began walking to the exit.

The noise of a cloak shifting brought his attention back to the witch. He spun around to see a shaking wand pointed at his face, "I said I didn't want to do this anymore. And I won't."

Tom gave a sigh of annoyance, and before Isabella had the chance to breathe, let alone to utter a spell, Riddle's own wand was out. "_Stupefy_."

Isabella collapsed on the carpeted floor and Tom made no move to carry her to the bed. Instead, he left the room, his thoughts drifting as he cast a quick charm that rendered him unnoticeable. He would go back to the clearing. Now that the centaurs believed that they had exterminated the human threat they wouldn't be patrolling the area. He would be able to work in peace. His hands drifted to the small diary in his pocket and shook in anticipation. It was going to be another painful day.

---

"Leah, are you sure you're okay?"

Morgan looked up into James' puzzled expression. It was then that she realized he had a thick arm pulling her into his body. Her eyebrows furrowed together, "I'm fine, just tired."

It wasn't a complete lie. She _was _absolutely exhausted. After coming back from detention she ran to the dorms and collapsed on her bed, thankful that she didn't run into Tom Riddle. However, sleep wouldn't come. She stayed up well into the night tossing and turning, mulling over all the damn problems she had.

"You're looking very ill," James continued, his hand rubbing her shoulder. "Do you even eat at all?"

"Of course I do," Morgan retorted, her hands flying to her face, trailing the pale skin there.

"It's just that you look pale, and you don't have any meat on your bones."

The words confused Morgan even more. Back in her own time she rarely had a decent meal, and yet she looked worse than she did then. She ate more now and made sure to consume a lot of sugar, yet she was still thin and pale. It wasn't anything serious to worry about, but curious, very curious.

"Don't worry about me, I'm fine, honestly." Morgan reached up and patted the arm James had laid over her. "You're acting like you're trying to keep me from falling to pieces," Morgan noted dryly.

James' arm squeezed tighter around her shoulder, "You look like you are."

"Thanks for the compliment," she grumbled in response. "But what about you? How are you doing? Did you hear anything from your family?"

The bigger Gryffindor leaned his head down towards her, so that they were eyelevel. "Not yet," he whispered darkly, "I'm really getting scared now."

Morgan reached up a hand and patted his scarred cheek gently because her words failed her.

James pulled away with a small smile, "Thanks."

Morgan shrugged, not exactly sure what it was she did that was deserving of thanks. She glanced around the Gryffindor table to make sure they had not been overheard; James was very private about his family now, understandably. Charlus was pressed against her other side, immersed in some Quidditch conversation with Kayden while everyone else was pretty content with their breakfasts.

"Do you have another detention tonight?"

"Yeah, tomorrow will be my last one though, unfortunately." Morgan let her hands trace patterns onto her empty plate.

"You are the only girl I know who likes trudging through the forest," James said appreciatively. "You're also the only one I know dumb enough to hex Tom Riddle."

Minerva McGonagall had told all the Gryffindors about Tom's made up reason for her detention; and they all loved her for it.

"Violetta has called me reckless."

"The Slytherin? Isn't she dating that asshole Braxton Caldwell?" James stuffed a piece of toast in his mouth.

"I dunno," Morgan admitted unhappily. She was supposed to be friends with Violetta, and yet she didn't know the first thing about her life. "Probably."

"Oh, okay. Do you want to go outside for awhile, sit by that one tree?"

It was a tempting offer; the sun was actually shining, warming up the air outside, but Morgan didn't know if she could go outside and relax. She wasn't exactly in the conversing mood, her thoughts kept straying to the night before, and more often then not she had to stop her tongue from running over her sore lips.

Her eyes looked back towards the Slytherin table, only to find Tom Riddle missing, as well as Isabella Marston. "Hey, where did Isabella and Tom run off too?"

James frowned at the change in conversation, "I don't know. They've been disappearing together everyday for the past week or so. Probably sha—you know, hanging out." A warm blush began working its way up the Gryffindor's neck, but Morgan didn't pay that any attention.

"What do you mean 'together'? I thought it was only Tom who holes himself up in the library."

"I seriously doubt their going to the library together…"

"But, I mean, it was only Tom that was leaving before…Why did they start leaving together…"

"Tom has always disappeared," James said, "It's just that now he's started leaving with a girl. I don't see what the problem is especially if he's going to marry her like everyone is saying. Why does it even matter?"

"It doesn't," Morgan said defensively. "I'm just curious."

"Well, let's go be curious outside, maybe we can go down to the Quidditch pitch later and I can teach you how to fly."

Morgan held back a snort; she already knew how to fly. "No, I can't, I have a ton of essays to do. Tomorrow can we do that?"

James looked rather crestfallen, but nodded regardless. "I have Quidditch practice at ten in the morning. But afterwards we can fly together."

"Great." Morgan peeled her body away from his and jumped to her feet. "Right well, I guess I'll be going." She gave James a light wave before taking off at a brisk pace, her thoughts whirling.

So Tom and Isabella had been running off together every single day for a week. Tom had said himself he didn't even like Isabella, so what in the world was going on!? It was so frustrating.

_Think. _Think clearly, she scolded herself. Ask the right question.

Why now? What happened that was so significant a week ago?

It had been the night she found that trinket in the Chamber of Secrets (her mind was still trying to figure out what was so important about it), and had also been the day she attacked Riddle in the library.

Could the trinket have anything to do with it? Tom certainly seemed excited about it, even though it wasn't the Founders Necklace.

Her face scrunched up in thought as she tried to remember every single conversation she had with Tom that day. In the library he said something about going to see Slughorn. But that was the Slug Club night, something she had stopped attending after the first meeting, so there wasn't anything usual about that.

She tried to remember anything else from the library, but for some reason only the conversation regarding Slughorn stuck out. Why? Why did she remember that so distinctly?

And then it hit her.

_'Tom Riddle learned how to create a horcrux from Slughorn in his sixth year. So be prepared. After he creates his first one he will come to resemble Voldemort more than a polite schoolboy.'_

Snape's file. It had been very direct about the creation of Voldemort's horcurxes, though it had failed to mention_ when_ exactly in his sixth year they were created. Could Tom have found out how to create a horcrux that night a week ago? And had he been making them for the past week?

Her heart thumped wildly at the thought. The more times you split and separated your soul, the more monstrous you became. Could she deal with an even more monstrous Tom Riddle? Probably not.

But where in the hell did Isabella fit into all of this?

Morgan's head was starting to hurt, and she made her way up the Room of Requirement. She would get her cloak and begin to search for Tom. She would find him no matter what.

Morgan reached the seventh floor quickly and began pacing the length of the Room of Requirement's wall. _'Just get me in here, hurry!'_

She didn't bother to specify where 'here' was. She had been the last person there; so obviously, it would just reconstruct the last room that had been in use.

The door appeared before her instantly, and she barreled through it without much thought. As soon as she stepped over the threshold, however, she paused. Her room wasn't colored silver and green, and there weren't any books on the shelves.

She glanced down at the carpet and gulped. "I don't remember leaving you in here either," she muttered, eyeing the collapsed form of Isabella Marston.

Morgan leaned down, her pulse racing and all thoughts of Tom Riddle gone. "I swear to god, if you're dead Marston, I am going to fucking flip." She placed her head cautiously on Isabella's chest, seeking out the tell-tale signs of a heartbeat. Thankfully, she found one.

Sitting back on her haunches, Morgan contemplated what she could do. She needed to talk to Isabella, so that meant she had to wake the witch up.

Without much grace, she began poking the redhead's nose repeatedly. Nothing happened.

"Time to bring out the wand," Morgan muttered to herself, filling the silence in the room. She pulled the stick out a shot a jet of water at her fellow Slytherin.

Isabella Marston flailed at the contact, her eyes popping wide open and her cheeks flushing. She sat up suddenly, pushing Morgan backwards with a surprising amount of strength. Morgan pulled herself to her feet quickly, stowing away her wand and watching Marston apprehensively.

"What are you doing here!?" Isabella sounded frantic, her eyes wide and searching the room. "Get out!"

"Very polite of you," Morgan grumbled, brushing invisible dust of her clothes. "Do you know where Riddle is? It's important."

At the mention of Tom's name, Isabella's eyes filled with tears. The color from her cheeks fled and her mouth popped open, "You mustn't tell him you were here, please, you need to leave Leah." The smaller witch dragged herself to her feet, her shoulders shaking with silent cries.

"Bloody hell," Morgan sighed and walked over to the Slytherin cautiously. "What did Tom do to you?"

"N-nothing," Marston drew herself up to her full height (which wasn't all that impressive), and took a deep breath, "Nothing at all. Now I'm afraid you're going to have to leave, before you force me to take action."

Morgan stared in silence at Isabella, one eyebrow raised. Luckily for Morgan, her fellow Slytherin wasn't a very strong individual, and soon collapsed on the nearby couch, wrapping her thin arms around her torso.

Morgan sat down next to the witch carefully.

"Leah, what's wrong with me?" Isabella finally cried out. "Tell me, please, because I can't seem to figure it out. My family bred me perfectly; I'm one-hundred percent Pureblood!"

"Lucky you," Morgan said dryly.

Marston turned her watery eyes back to Morgan, "I know you think you're funny, Leah, and you are, really. I like it when you make fun of Lucretia and Marinette because they need to be put in their place sometimes. But this, this isn't funny. This is me falling apart," Isabella leaned forward off the couch, squeezing her sides together and choking out sobs.

"I don't understand it!" the witch continued. "I throw myself on him, time after time, I give him everything I have, and I get nothing in return. And he doesn't notice! When he told me that he needed my help, and that dating would only be a ruse to fool the Half-bloods and Mudbloods, and other unworthy wizards I thought—maybe, just maybe, he'll fall for me. Because there's nothing wrong with me! I'm beautiful, rich… pure!"

Morgan was just starting to realize what a modest witch she was rooming with. Smirking at the thought, Morgan's hands glazed over the cover of a large volume beside her.

"But he never cared! He sticks me in this room because I'm nothing to him. Nothing at all. I only ever had one purpose, and its breaking my heart." Isabella raked finger through her hair, her eyes leaking a constant flow of tears. "Growing up," she began more softly, "My mother always told me if I was polite, and genuine, and pretty, I would find someone to share myself with. 'You deserve the best' she always told me. And Tom Riddle, he's the best of the best…yet he won't even look at me without mildly concealed disgust, as if I'm a hideous deformity!"

She leaned over to Morgan and grasped her hands, pulling them away from the book they had been holding, "Tell me Leah, am I pretty? Am I nice? Am I wonderful? I hardly feel it. I feel useless, forgotten, and spent. I feel hideous, like a filthy Mudblood."

'_Maybe it's because you're hideous on the inside' _Morgan thought silently, her eyes fixed on the mess in front of her.

"What did he use you for, Isabella," Morgan asked, masking her urgency behind sympathy.

Marston pulled away from Morgan suspiciously, her mascara stained face regarding her for a moment before answering. "An alibi," she finally said thickly, fresh tears spilling over at the thought. "So people won't ask where he's been the past week every night and day. 'They'll assume we're together, and you won't discourage them from these notions.' He never understood that I wanted us to be together during those nights. I want to give myself up to him, to love him, but it's so hard. I don't think anyone can do it, I don't think anyone can love that man."

She leaned back towards Morgan, "The truth, though no one sees it, is that he's a monster Leah. A cold-hearted monster and I wish I knew that before I—I just wish I knew that. But I can't do anything now, not anymore. I'm terrified of what he'll do to me, absolutely frightened. He's an animal though, and he belongs in that bloody forest."

Morgan's head snapped up, "Forest?"

Isabella frowned, "Never mind that," she said quietly. Her hands went into the pocket of her robes, "I don't know how you found me, Leah, but I want to thank you for listening." She pulled out her wand, "But you must know I can't allow you to remember what it is you have heard. I'm sorry."

Morgan eyed the wand with annoyance, her hands creeping back to the book beside her. It was a thick volume, and would definitely do the trick.

"I should feel bad for this, but I think you deserve it as much as Lucretia and Marinette deserve to get made fun of. None of you are perfect, you're all faulted, and people need to pay for their faults." Isabella wiped her cheeks with the back of her wrist, "I shall see you tomorrow morning, and you shan't remember a thing."

But before Isabella could let loose the Obliviate charm, Morgan's arm snapped forward and smashed the huge volume into the side of the Slytherin's head. The small witch fell soundlessly to the floor.

"I should feel bad for this," Morgan mocked in a high falsetto, "But I've been waiting to do it for awhile."

Morgan brought herself to her feet and rubbed the back of her head unhappily. The whole answer had been staring her in the face. The reason why Tom knew about the centaur's arrow poison, the reason why the centaurs were even there in the first place, was because of him. She was impaled with an arrow for his damn sake. The thought made her angry, so angry that she didn't realize she had stepped on Isabella's fallen body as she made her way out of the room.

That, or she just didn't care.

---

After casting a disillusionment charm on herself, Morgan made her way out of the castle. Somehow, clouds had already begun covering up the sun, and the air was chilly. Trudging across the castle grounds Morgan couldn't help but dread the oncoming winter with a passion. It was going to suck.

_Focus!_

She looked around carefully, as if someone could have known her thoughts slipped away from the serious situation at hand. Sticking her hands into her pockets, she ducked her head and ran straight to the forest. She gazed around the trees, expertly tracking her way back to the clearing.

As soon as she heard the sound of running water, she slowed her pace. She passed from tree trunk to tree trunk, hiding for a few moments before advancing. When the clearing came into sight, she stopped a few feet away, ducking behind a bush.

Tom Riddle was in the middle of the clearing, his hands shaking wildly and his eyes unfocused as he sank to his knees. His mouth was pressed together in a firm line, a line that soon wavered. His mouth fell open and no sound came out.

It was then Morgan realized he had created a barrier between the clearing and the rest of the forest. He was undoubtedly screaming and in a ton of pain, it was just that she couldn't hear it.

Her blue eyes spied a small diary sitting neatly on the forest floor, watching Tom writhe in pain.

So she was too late. He was already ripping apart his soul. At least, he was in the process of it.

His hands went to his head, where they gripped his neat hair and pulled at it madly. Morgan had to avert her eyes, she couldn't watch anymore. She just couldn't. Her heartbeat was very loud in her ears. Tom was killing his humanity.

Morgan dove out from under her bush and ran into the clearing. Even though Tom was on his knees, he came up to her stomach, so she ducked low and tackled him. The combined force of her sudden movement sent them both spiraling across the grass and Morgan's ears popped when she could suddenly hear the gut-wrenching screams Riddle was producing.

They soon stopped though, as Morgan sat on his stomach defiantly and slapped her hands over his mouth. "Stop it!" she commanded helplessly. "Stop right now!"

Tom's unfocused eyes didn't see her. His body fought against her and his arms punched at her quickly. Morgan's hands left his mouth and gripped at his cheeks, ignoring the weak blows his body was extracting on her.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle, stop it right now," she realized she was fighting back tears, "Or I swear I'll give you a real reason to scream." Her voice was thick and she bit her tongue. To see someone, no matter whom, in so much pain…it was sickening.

Tom's breathing calmed down soon, and suddenly he was really seeing her. His eyes widened, still in shock, and he roughly shot upwards and pushed her off of him. She fell to the forest floor with an inaudible thump, in a slight daze herself, as she wiped at her eyes furiously.

"What in the hell were you thinking!"

Tom gazed at her blankly, "Why are you crying?"

Morgan rubbed her eyes harder, "I'm not, idiot! Now answer my question!"

But apparently, Tom didn't care for Morgan's question, as he turned his gaze to the clearing around them and picked up his nearby fallen wand. His dark eyes landed on the small diary last, when a painful wince overtook his expression.

"Yeah, ouch is right!" Morgan stammered, "Damn it Riddle, don't you know you're killing off your goddamn humanity? Honestly, you're the fucking stupidest smart guy I've ever met!"

Tom turned away from the diary and looked at her impassively. She realized his shirt had been unbuttoned, and sweat poured off his body. "What are you doing here?" his tone was getting slightly more comprehensible, even though his movements were jerky and pinched.

His shaking hands went to button his shirt up again, but they couldn't seem to get a good enough grip on the buttons. His pale features were wrought with concentration as he tried to accomplish such a simple task. He was more pathetic than Isabella.

Sighing loudly, Morgan pushed herself to her feet and walked to him. Without a word she yanked his hands away from his shirt. The sudden movement caused him to waver, and he had to place his hands on her shoulders to maintain balance.

"So stupid," Morgan muttered to herself, her hands quickly doing up the buttons of his shirt. Tom's hands gripped her long hair gently, as if fascinated by how the strands felt against his skin. Morgan ignored the contact and quickly finished her task. When she was done, she tried to pull away, but Tom didn't loosen his grip.

"Alright, alright," Morgan growled. She half dragged-half pulled Tom near the stream and gently sat him down by the bank. With his hair sticking up at all angles, he looked like a madman amidst a place of beauty.

He was blinking slowly, clenching and unclenching his fists, before he finally glanced back at Morgan.

The young witch had moved away from him, her eyes darting around the clearing apprehensively. Her arm throbbed at the thought of the pain she had felt there a mere twenty-four hours ago. She was afraid.

"They won't come back," Tom said slowly. "They think that you have died and that their clearing is protected."

Morgan turned back to him, her eyes darkening. "Well, you know, I wonder why they shot a fucking arrow at me in the first place, Riddle!" She threw her arms in the air, "What are you thinking!? Horcruxes! Please, tell me, what compels someone to throw away their very humanity, because I'm very curious. I'm actually thinking about writing a book; I think I'll call it, 'The Biggest Fucking Idiots in History'."

"Stop talking so fast," Riddle commanded. "I can't think straight."

Morgan's mouth snapped shut, and she went back to examining the clearing unhappily.

It was a long time before Tom spoke again, at least ten minutes, but when he did his voice had gotten back its previous strength, and he was standing. "What are you doing here?"

Morgan glared, "Stopping you from ripping your soul in half."

Tom's hands rubbed tiredly across his face, "We really have to discuss how you know everything about what I'm doing sometime."

Morgan didn't stop glaring.

"So you know about horcurxes, and you figured out the centaurs and the clearing…you really are becoming a big problem. At least, you would be, if it weren't for that tattoo of yours."

In the darkening light, Morgan watched as Tom tried to pat down his hair. His dark eyes were sharp again, and they gazed at her with interest. "Why did you interfere?"

"Because I have something called empathy, and it makes me a bit impartial to seeing people writhing on the floor in pain."

Tom raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. And why should he? Her answer was the truth, well, at least most of it. Her other motivation for interfering was to stop him from becoming harder to handle. Had he split his soul, he would have been a lot more unpleasant to deal with.

Her eyebrows furrowed with unease, "Why did you do it, Tom? It hurts so much, is it worth it? Do you understand…you won't be whole anymore? You won't be you. You'll be…something else." The thought of doing such a thing sent shivers racking through her body. It was terrifying. As terrifying as her being unable to do Metamorphmagus transformations.

"I won't be me anymore? Ha," Tom smirked darkly, "And what's so bad about not being Tom Marvolo Riddle? What makes you think I want my father's name? A filthy Muggle, he wasn't even fit to be buried in the same ground I walk on."

"Don't say that…" Morgan cautioned unhappily.

"Why not? He deserves it! He deserved everything he got, him and his filthy parents." Tom began to angrily stalk the clearing, his eyes focused on the surrounding foliage.

"Why?"

"Because they let her die," he swore thickly.

Morgan frowned. Tom hated his father and grandparents because they allowed his mother to die. The thought scared her, because how many times had she contemplated killing Father Miller because of the death of Anne-Marie? Too many.

"I don't want his name," Tom said, more quietly this time. "I don't care if I turn into something else."

"Yeah, well I do," Morgan interjected.

Riddle looked at her dryly, "You hate me," he said simply.

"Yeah, but I'll hate the monster you turn into even more," she shuddered as her mind conjured up a picture of Lord Voldemort. "Believe me."

There was another round of silence, and then, "Oh, by the way, I knocked Isabella unconscious in the Room of Requirement."

Tom looked startled, "What?"

"I knocked her unconscious with a dictionary, I think. It felt good."

Riddle started laughing, his deep chuckles obliterating the peacefulness of the wood, "Did you really?"

"Yes. She was trying to Obliviate me. Now I may be able to tolerate you, but Isabella is one scorned woman. She's probably contemplating various ways to kill you as we speak. Should have married her when you had the chance." The bland humor felt familiar on her tongue, not too mention safe.

But at the mention of death, Tom's eyes blackened again and moved towards the diary.

Morgan threw her hand up in the air, "Oh no! Don't think about it. No more horcurxes! You didn't make one today, did you?"

Riddle shook his head, "No, you broke my concentration."

"Okay, good. Don't try and make one anymore," she commanded.

Tom looked amused at her attempt to be assertive, "And why should I listen to you?"

"Just don't do it."

Tom walked closer to Morgan, backing her into a tree. "And what do I get in return?" He leaned down, pushing his nose into her neck while one hand trailed to the back of her head, burying itself in her hair. "Hmm?" his voice and breath spread over her skin.

_'Not this again'_ anger cursed through Morgan's body, and she used her hands to try and push Tom away. When that didn't work, she lifted her hand up and went to slap him.

Tom caught her wrist seconds before it was about to make contact, and he leaned away from her. He ripped the sleeve of her shirt up and pressed down hard on her Dark Mark.

Pain rippled through her arm at a dreadfully fast pace, and she felt Tom's anger and despair; his unquenchable need to become something more than human, something to be feared and admired.

"Stop doing that too," Morgan gasped out when he finally ripped his hands away from her. "I hate it." Anger was cursing through her veins.

"I know," Tom said.

Morgan straightened out her clothes furiously, dragging her coat tighter around herself. Funny, how she was getting used to it already; used to the pain and the anger and the unhappiness. Maybe she realized Tom didn't really mean it, that the pain was just a reassurance for him, a reassurance that he still had control. "Well, I'm leaving now. Stop trying to rip your soul in half, okay?" she snapped.

Tom stared at her, "Okay. We need to take care of Isabella. I'll have to Obliviate her."

"Oh the horror," Morgan mocked, though she silently wondered when she had been included in his plans.

"Then we need to talk, about quite a few things."

Morgan shrugged, "Alright."

As Tom began walking out of the forest Morgan felt pity for the man. He didn't know it yet, but she planned on making him pay for every single time he touched her, no matter what the reason.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**A/N: Oh SWEET JESUS, it has been such a long time. Oh dear. Anyways, yeah, I apologize for that UNGODLY delay, but oh well. What can you do? This chapter is short. Well, short for me. And that is annoying the HELL out of me. AND WHAT IS UP WITH MY CAPS TODAY? Anyways, thanks to all those who review/fave/alert and even read. Tell me what you think about this one, and perhaps you won't have to wait a month for the next one. Hahaha, that was a joke. See? Haha? I'm kidding. The next update should be out next weekend. Or the weekend after that, at the very most.**

Disclaimer? No, I don't believe I have one for you today.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen: This Fight's Fixed**

Tom walked ahead of her, his shoulders set straight and his eyes narrowed in the darkness. A disillusionment charm masked both him and her, hiding them away from any prying eyes.

Neither of them said a word as they made their way back into the castle, climbing staircase after staircase until they finally got to the seventh floor. Once there, Tom conjured up the door to the Room of Requirement, and after entering, found Isabella collapsed on the floor still.

Morgan followed in after Tom, closing the door behind them and eyeing the changes to her sanctuary with irritation. She couldn't wait to kick Tom and Isabella out of there.

"Alright," Tom kneeled down beside Isabella's fallen form, her red hair splayed out around her. "Don't say a word."

Morgan sank down onto the lone couch in the room, her eyebrows raised, "What're you gunna do?"

Tom shot her an irritated glance, "I'm going to modify her memories."

"Sounds complicated."

"It is. And it requires complete silence, Leah. Shut up."

Morgan mimed zipping her lips up and throwing away the key, turning her attention to some of the books. She furrowed her eyebrows in annoyance when she read some of the titles. 'A Guide to Pureblood Heritage', 'Mudbloods: The Inferior Half of Society', and 'Classic Wizardry Fairytales' were just a select few of the titles. Though Morgan was more puzzled than pissed off by the last one.

She jumped to her feet lightly and began walking the perimeter of the room, taking care to stay out of Tom's way. His mumbling filled the silence, his words perhaps making sense to him, but not her.

"It's done."

Morgan shrugged, "Okay."

"I'm going to place her outside and I want you to wake her up."

"What am I supposed to say?"

"I just broke up with her, and she fainted. You were walking down the corridor when you saw me trying to wake her up." Tom explained evenly. "That's the story were going to stick with. When we do wake her up, she won't have any recollection about her involvement. Then, when she leaves, we shall have our long-delayed conversation."

"You broke up with her….and she fainted. Huh, someone thinks a bit highly of themselves."

"I don't need to think highly of myself, everyone else does that for me."

Morgan turned back towards Isabella's unconscious body and picked up her legs. Without much ceremony, she began dragging the witch across the floor and to the door. "Oh, so the Heir of Slytherin does have a sense of humor, albeit a conceited one, but one nonetheless."

"It wasn't a joke, merely the truth," Tom replied. He watched Morgan struggled with Isabella's body for a moment before rubbing a hand across his tired face. "You are honestly unbelievable. You have a wand for a reason."

Morgan straightened her back and put her hands on her hips, "You appreciate things more if you actually work for them."

"That has no practical application in this situation, Leah," Tom lazily pulled out his wand and flicked his wrist in one smooth movement. Isabella's body hovered above the ground, her dainty shoes eyelevel with Morgan. She pushed the shoe away, scowling.

A small, mocking smile touched Tom's lips, "Open the door."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm going." She would have added a snarky 'Your Majesty,' to the end of her sentence, but she figured Riddle would have actually enjoyed the words.

When she finally made it out into the seventh floor corridor she reached her arm around and rubbed her shoulders. The muscles in her arms were aching. Really, when had she gotten so out of shape?

"Okay," Tom set Isabella down a little ways away from the Room of Requirement wall. "I'm going to wake her up now, alright?"

Morgan sighed, but nodded regardless.

A few mumbled words later, Isabella was darting up from her ungraceful position on the floor. Her head of red locks flew widely as she turned her head this way and that. "T-Tom, what happened?" She looked at him with an empty expression.

"Uh, you fainted," Morgan threw in from across the hall, her back to the stone wall. "And Tom was trying to wake you up…right?"

Tom, who was kneeling down beside Isabella nodded seriously, "Are you alright, Isabella?" He offered her a hand up, and she took it graciously. As soon as he pulled her to her feet though, and tried to pull away from her, she grabbed onto his shoulders desperately.

"I apologize, my knees are still unsteady," The Pureblood rested her head on Riddle's shoulder sleepily. "Come on, Tom, let's go back to the Common Room."

Tom very convincingly rubbed the back of his head in a sheepish manner.

"Perhaps he should tell you _why_ you fainted, exactly," Morgan snickered. She refused to have sympathy for a Pureblood supremacist.

Tom shot her a glare that she was sure wasn't completely scripted. "Yes," he mumbled very distinctly, "We need to talk."

Confusion flickered in Isabella's gaze, "What is it, Tom?"

"We should do this in private," Riddle shot a quick glance back at Morgan, and she knew that this time it was for Isabella's benefit.

"What? No!" Marston shook her head fiercely, gripping the front of Tom's shirt in anxiety. "She can hear, I don't care, just tell me now."

Tom was about to concede defeat, as per discussed, when Morgan interrupted. "You know what; I think that Tom is right. This is a conversation better fit for a private area. I'll just leave."

Riddle turned his head towards her, and a look of carefully controlled anger distorted his expression, "Do you, Leah?"

Morgan giggled, a strange sound she wasn't used to emitting, "Oh yes, I do."

Isabella glanced between the two of them, her arms still wrapped tightly around Tom, "First name basis, what's going on here?!" The beginnings of tears gathered at the corners of her eyes.

"Absolutely nothing," Morgan chimed. She gave the former couple a slight and cheery wave, "Toodles!"

---

Morgan chuckled all the way out of the castle, basking in the warmth of the sun. There was certainly going to be hell to pay when Tom extracted himself from Marston, but that was a worry for another time.

Most of the other students were out and about, taking full advantage of the unusual and unexpected sunlight. Morgan casted her blue eyes around the field by the lake, searching for Kayden, Charlus, or more importantly, James. Now that she had sneaked away from Tom, she would love to go flying with him.

It didn't take long to find the trio. They were camped out under the oak tree, Charlus and Kayden taking turns battering a rock at each other with a fat stick. James watched with what Morgan could recognize as feigned interest.

She skipped over to them, "Hello, darlings!"

Kayden looked up immediately, turning his attention away from Charlus who was in the process of batting the rock. It smacked the other Gryffindor in the head. "OW! POTTER, I'M GOING TO KILL YOU."

Charlus glanced back at Morgan, gave her a small smile, and then proceeded to dash back towards the castle. Kayden chased after him, right on his friend's heels.

"They act like toddlers," Morgan pointed out fondly, sitting down next to James.

The older student nodded, "I thought you wouldn't be able to come outside today. Some essay you had to do."

"I finished early, and was wondering if those flying lessons were still up for the taking."

James gave her a wide grin, the scar across his cheek crinkling with the movement. "Of course," he bounded to his feet and offered her a large hand. She took it immediately. "You have perfect timing; the Hufflepuff's just got off from practice, so the pitch is free."

"Okay."

James dragged her all the way down to the Quidditch Pitch, which was indeed empty. She had yet to come down there since going back in time, but the structure seemed pretty much the same. Same six loops; same stands; and same soft, turf like grass. "Give me a moment," James let go of her hand and ran through one of the player entrances to the pitch.

It was a couple of minutes later when he returned with his broom in hand. Morgan grimaced at the thought of how slow it would go.

"Alright," James rubbed a hand over his buzzed haircut, "I guess we'll just start with the basics." He straddled the broom and then gestured behind him. "Get on."

Morgan paused, "You know, now that I think about it, wearing a skirt probably isn't a good idea…" She pulled out her wand a summoned a pair of black trousers, much like the ones she wore on her late detention nights.

She kicked off her shoes and began pull the slacks up, sliding them under her skirt. James, who had been watching, blushed, the skin of his neck turning a light pink color. "Uh, if you needed to change, you could have just gone in there…" he trailed off and pointed towards the Quidditch locker rooms.

Morgan's mouth popped open in a small 'o', she just kept forgetting how much more conservative the times were. "Sorry!" she stammered out, "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

James gripped the broom tighter in his hands, his skin still a light pink shade. "Right, well then, hop on."

Morgan jumped on the broom, straddling it right behind James. She wrapped her arms around his waist and locked her wrists together. "Ready for take off," she chuckled.

James gave a single nod before kicking off the ground. The old broom effortlessly held their weight as the older Gryffindor took to the skies higher and higher. The wind whiplash was nothing compared to what Morgan was used to in her own time, but for James' sake, she pretended to be overwhelmed for a couple of seconds.

"Wow, this is amazing." The words came out as a mumble in the folds of James' robes.

"Best part of being a wizard," James agreed. "You wanna see some tricks?"

"Show me what you got, Gryffindor."

James tilted to the left, pulling the broom into a sliding roll. The world around Morgan spun as she pulled herself tighter to her companion. "C'mon, that was nothing!"

James laughed, "Alright, I won't go easy on you." He started into a series of flips, twists, and dives; testing Morgan's limits as a passenger on the broom.

Finally, when Morgan thought the muscles in her arms would fall right off, she yelled into James' ear to take them down.

A few moments later she was safely on the ground, dismounting from the broom easily. "That was awesome. Can I try riding by myself?"

James looked a bit uncertain, "I'm not sure, that was your first time on a broom right?"

"I'm sure I could handle it," Morgan gave him her customary grin; the one that she knew was the most persuasive. "Please."

"I have a feeling I'm going to regret this," James muttered, "But fine. Just don't kill yourself."

Morgan rolled her eyes, as if it would even be possible for her to kill herself on a broom that slow. "Great." She pulled the broom from her friend's grip and mounted it like a pro.

A moment later, after giving James a thumbs-up, she kicked off the ground. The wind rushed up to meet her, and she gave a laugh of delight. She hadn't felt so free since scoring against the Slytherins when she was a fifth year.

She pulled the broom into a quick circle, her dark hair rushing out behind her as she made a sharp turn. The sun was still up, though she could tell it would be setting soon. Unfortunately, she knew opportunities like this wouldn't come too often.

Rearing the broom back towards James, she rolled forward into a dive, pulling up twenty feet from the ground. She heard the Gryffindor's protests, but ignored them. She clenched her muscles in preparation for flip. Leaning backwards, she felt the world tilt and respond to her movements.

She laughed happily. "James, this is the best!"

"Come down now, Leah, you're scaring the hell out of me!"

"Oh alright," Morgan grumbled. "One more trick."

She leaned towards the right, tumbling into a sharp right roll. Halfway through the dive, though, the muscles all along her back and arms shuddered in uncontrollable spasms. She sucked in a large breath, attempting to pull out of the dive and keep her hands on the broom, but it was useless. The pain was too much.

With a final jerk, her hands came free from the broom and she fell towards the left. Morgan closed her eyes, preparing her body for the impact that would most certainly break a few bones. She wasn't that high up, twenty-five feet at most, but she wasn't going to leave the pitch unscathed.

But the impact never came.

Instead, she heard a quick spell being shouted before she fell into something soft. Peeking out of one eye, she realized James had caught her.

Morgan smiled sheepishly, "Huh, fancy seeing you here, James…"

James glared at her, "I swear to god, you are going to kill me! What happened up there?"

"What happened up there?" Morgan repeated, "What happened down here? I should be a stain on the turf by now."

James groaned, "Don't remind me. I slowed your fall with a damn spell!"

It was then that Morgan saw the wand peeking out of James' fist, the one that was wrapped around her side tightly.

"Oh," she blinked, "Is the broom okay?"

"You have got to be kidding me," James sighed exasperated.

And then, he kissed her.

Well, tried to, anyways. As soon as Morgan saw him lean forward, she turned her head sharply to the right. James lips collided gently with her soft cheek, lingering there for a several long moments, moments that felt like years.

She couldn't do it. Not when her lips still felt the raw burning of Tom's. Not when she knew that her departure from this time was inevitable.

James tightened his hold on her, letting out a long breath and letting his head slide down so it rested in her hair.

Morgan was both shocked and terrified when she opened her mouth to speak and found that her voice failed her. This wasn't right; this wasn't how anything was supposed to happen.

"James," her voice cracked. "I'm sorry, I can't do it. Not right now."

He lifted his head away from her and scowled, "Why?" He demanded, his voice filled with rejection. "Why not now?"

"Please," Morgan licked her suddenly dry lips, "You have to understand that…" she hesitated.

"What, what is it? Is it because I'm not a Pureblood?"

Morgan's eyes widened, appalled, "Put me down. Now." Her voice was deadly serious, something that was very rare.

"Leah…"

Morgan sighed when she heard the desperation in his voice. She gently reached her hands forward and cupped his face, all the while marveling at how the hell he was still able to hold her up. "You know that blood has nothing to do with it."

"Then why not?" the anger was back in his voice, along with frustration. "I just don't understand."

"I hate to interrupt."

Morgan instantly recognized the voice, "Not now," she pleaded to the sky.

"But I suggest you just take the Leah's rejection, Darley, and start walking to Dumbledore's office."

James swore loudly before turning around, eyeing Tom Riddle with annoyance. "I suggest you stay out of this, Riddle."

Tom stared back at James impassively, "Sexual harassment is a very serious offense at Hogwarts, and if you don't want me mentioning it to the Headmaster, then you'll do well to listen to me."

"Shut up Tom!" Morgan snapped, "It's nothing like that!"

But James was already putting her down on the ground and trying to take threatening steps to the Prefect. Morgan jumped in front of him and pushed him backwards, it only took a few moments, however, for another spasm to wrack through her arms. They fell down to her side idly, giving a few small twitches.

Tom raised an eyebrow in interest while James gently grabbed her arms, "Is that what happened, Leah, when you were flying?"

Morgan snatched her arms from his grip, "Don't worry," she stressed, "It's nothing."

His face fell before he looked back over her shoulder at Tom, "What do you want?"

"I told you, Dumbledore wants to see you. It's against the rules to go flying on the pitch without a teacher's permission, even worse to let an untrained student fly a broom without the proper supervision."

"Don't be ridiculous, Tom," Morgan stood in front of James protectively, "It was my idea, I'll go talk to Slughorn about it."

"Perhaps later," Riddle smiled thinly, "But right now I'd like to take you to the Hospital Wing to check you out. You fell far."

"She's fine," James growled, "I took care of her just fine."

"Trying to kiss her isn't the same as trying to take care of her."

"Just stop it, Tom, please," Morgan pleaded with the Heir of Slytherin, desperately trying to keep her hold on James.

Tom shrugged almost indiscernibly, "I'm merely pointing out the flaws in his argument." Thankfully, though, he didn't further comment on the situation.

Morgan turned around so that she was facing James, whose eyes were darkened with rage. She reached up and yanked the front of his shirt down, so that he was eyelevel with her. "Listen to me, James," she said slowly. "Don't do or say anything stupid, okay? Just go to Dumbledore and we can talk later…about _everything_. Okay?"

"Everything," he solidified. "I'll hold you to that." He paused for a long time, "I'm sorry, I just…can't…well, I'll tell you later." He actually smiled then, his green eyes lighting up before he leaned down and defiantly brushed his lips against her cheek again.

He stalked towards the Quidditch Pitch exit, taking extra care to smash his shoulder into Tom's as he passed.

Tom had a look of pure annoyance on his face, something that Morgan couldn't ever remember seeing before.

In response, Morgan just stared back blankly at him.

It was silent for several, long, minutes.

"It appears you need a lesson in manners," Tom mused, crossing his arms over his chest. "I can't count the amount of times I've deserved your thanks."

Morgan gaped at him, "What are you talking about? You don't deserve anything, save for a slap to the face."

Tom frowned, "That Gryffindor was pushing himself on you."

Morgan threw her hands in the air, "No! He wasn't. I _like_ James. You want to know the reason why I can't kiss him?" She stomped towards Riddle and poked him swiftly in the chest. "Because I can't bear the thought of kissing anyone after what you did to me, thinking about it makes me sick."

"Is that what you've been telling yourself?" Tom grabbed Morgan's hand and pushed it back down to her side.

Morgan made a sound of anger deep in her throat before pulling back her fist.

"I don't think so, Leah." Tom turned his back on her, "Now, if you're done being a whiny child, I have a lot of things to talk to you about."

---

The two made their way back to the Room of Requirement, with Tom leading the way. Morgan kept her mouth firmly shut, thinking that even if she wanted to talk, she couldn't be able to find any words to express her thoughts.

It was confusing. Terribly so.

When she signed up to go on Dumbledore's secret mission she figured she'd have to deal with an angst-ridden-woe-is-me Tom Riddle coupled with danger beyond comprehension. What she didn't think she'd have to deal with is something as taboo as teenage love. Eck.

"Are you coming?" Tom stood in front of her, holding open the door to the Room of Requirement. Taking extra care not to touch him, she sidled in through the opening.

"I don't understand, I thought you were going to take me to the Hospital Wing." Morgan ventured the thought out hopefully, her feet leading her towards one of the black couches in the room.

"I can heal you better than any Mediwitch," Tom assured her seriously.

"Hmm," Morgan held her hands out in front of her, watching with wide and curious eyes as they twitched slightly.

The Heir of Slytherin kneeled before her, his eyes locked on her clothed arms, "That is very interesting, Leah."

"Tell me about it."

Tom pulled out his wand before gripping both of Morgan's hands in his free one. "Alright, let me see…" his eyes lost focus for a minute before he tapped his wand against her twitching arms.

A cooling green vapor poured out of his wand and snaked up her arms. The tickling substance sank into her arms, and soon the twitching died out.

"Hmm," Morgan flexed her arms. "What was wrong with them?"

Tom stood up silently, "You wore your muscles out. Too much strenuous activity and your muscles can become inflamed, leading to spasms."

"It's never happened before," Morgan grumbled. "Too much strenuous activity, my ass."

She let her eyes wander around the room Tom conjured up. The walls were a light golden color and a long bookshelf ran along the perimeter walls. The room itself was square in shape, with a large bed tucked into the left corner of it. A fire place rested before her couch, sizzling with newly lit embers. An arm chair lay just to the left of her, and that was where Tom finally sat down.

Morgan allowed herself to leisurely stretch out on the black leather. "So how'd it go with Marston?"

An unintelligible noise came from Tom's direction, and Morgan realized he had buried his face in his hands. "It was…unpleasant."

"Oh, I bet she cried, did she cry?"

"You seem far too excited to hear about this."

"Well, she did try to Obliviate me. Oh, and not to mention the fact that she's a poisonous bitch on the inside, underneath all that fake glitzy 'I'm-so-pretty-and-innocent' spiel."

"I wonder what terms of endearment she would use to describe you now."

"You mean 'I wonder what terms of endearment she would use to describe you _if _she remembered you knocked her out with a dictionary', right?"

"No. She thinks you are the reason I broke up with her. And in a way, that is the truth. Isabella hates you, I would assume." Tom's head lolled back to the ceiling and he let out a tired sigh.

It was weird, Morgan mused, seeing him showing weakness.

"Well that's just great. Lucretia's probably going to put mercury in my food or something."

"Why in the world would she do that?" Tom asked dully.

"Because it's poisonous," Morgan explained.

"You don't say."

"You look really tired."

"I am really tired."

"Well maybe if someone hadn't been trying to rip their soul in half…I'm not pointing any fingers or anything…"

"Leah," Tom interrupted. "Shut up and let me sleep."

A noise of surprise escaped Morgan's throat. "Sleep? You brought me back here so you could sleep?"

Tom opened one eye and glanced at her with it, "Yes."

"Jesus Christ! Why not let me, oh I don't know, get on with my life! I can think of a million things I would rather do than watch you sleep." Morgan huffed out indignantly.

"I never said you had to watch me sleep," Tom corrected her; "You can sleep too, if you want."

"And what is the point of this?!"

"The point is, Leah, that when I wake up, you will be right here in this room. So I won't have to go looking for you to ask you the hundreds of questions that I need answered. I'll even give you the bed."

"Ew, stop being generous, it's scary." Morgan ground out around her gritted teeth. "Besides, I can't sleep; I have to go to detention…"

"Taken care of," Tom said. Morgan heard a slight rustling and knew that he was standing up. "In light of your recent accident, the Headmaster has allowed you take the night off in order to get some well deserved rest."

"Why do things always work out so perfectly for you?" Morgan demanded.

"You don't want to know the answer to that question." Tom stopped before her couch, "Now go to sleep, in the bed, so I can have the couch."

"Why not conjure up another bed?"

"You want to do that, go ahead, but right now I just don't care." He sighed before pulling out his wand a swishing it to the left. Morgan felt her body tumble off of the couch.

"Ouch, okay, okay, I'm going." She held up her hands in surrender and walked towards the big bed. "Man, you sure are cranky when you're tired."

Morgan didn't get a response.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**A/N: **Yeah. It's been awhile -scratches head- but what can you do. Life gets in the way. At least this chapter is one of my longer ones. R & R if you wish for an update. Kudos to all those who reviewed last chapter/faved/alerted. You guys were kinda like my motivation to get off my butt. Happy holidays, guys.

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen: Put Up or Shut Up**

Morgan uneasily pushed her eggs around the gilded plate in front of her. She tried—very hard mind you—to keep her eyes there, but every once and awhile they snaked over to the Gryffindor table. James was sitting there, his back rigid, and she swore he shot her confused glares over his shoulder every ten seconds. Or maybe that was just her imagination.

…Wait. No it wasn't.

"Ugh," Morgan flapped her head down on the table unhappily.

"Having a lovers spat?" Violetta slid into the empty spot beside Morgan and gave her a very small smile.

Morgan paled, "Lovers!? What? Where the hell did you get _that_ idea from? Why does everyone, including him, think that there's something going on? Can't a girl hang around a guy because she wants his friendship?"

Violetta responded with an odd sound in the back of her throat.

"Did you just snort?" Morgan asked the table.

"Well, yes," Violetta answered, "But just because you're being utterly ridiculous."

"You don't say."

"I am just going to ignore that unenthusiastic tone of yours and explain to you what you're obviously dying to know but too embarrassed to ask about." The young blond witch settled both of her small hands on the table and took a deep breath. "Leah, did you know that about every single one of the witches and wizards before you today will graduate with a fiancé?"

Morgan, her face still buried in the table, growled.

"Apparently not," there was a torn look on the other witch's face, as if she didn't know whether to be disgusted or amused by her friends antics. "Well, now you do. So take a look at James for a moment—"

Morgan squirmed in her seat.

"—he's a good looking guy, single, and a seventh year. Now that's unusual. He's obviously looking for a wife, and when you started meeting with him on several occasions, he apparently thought you were looking for a husband."

Morgan looked up from the table-top and scrunched her nose at Violetta, "Are you sure that Slytherin logic applies to tactless Gryffindors?"

"Have I ever pointed you in the wrong direction?"

"There's a first time for everything."

Violetta shrugged, "That's how I see things. Take it or leave it, Leah." The witch gracefully pulled herself to her feet and stalked out of the Great Hall, but not before reminding her friend of their upcoming Charms period.

At least that class wasn't with Gryffindor.

Morgan glanced again at the aforementioned table and flailed out of her seat when her eyes connected with James'. She fell to the floor with a loud thump, and didn't even try to get up for a few minutes. She could practically feel Lucretia's eyes burning holes into her head, and was that the sound of laughter coming from the other side of the hall?

Why yes, yes it was.

---

"Good morning class, you're all looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed."

In response to their professor's rather sarcastic greeting, the collection of Slytherin and Hufflepuff students sighed. Monday mornings were the absolute worst, and Bragidly was especially fond of torturing his students.

Fortunately, the whole class knew of one student who could return the favor.

"Leah, you're late again. Though this does not surprise me, why don't you humor me and give me a reason as to why?"

Disgruntled and looking slightly sick, the Slytherin student replied in kind, "Uh…I got lost."

"Miss Hume, you've been at this school for months, I'm sorry but that excuse will just no longer do. Now, I'll ask again, why were you late?"

Navigating her way around the classroom desks, Morgan waved a dismissive hand over her shoulder, "Oh, well, since you asked so nicely I guess I could let you in on my little secret. I was, ahem, out."

"Out," Bragidly repeated dully.

"Yes, that's what I said, wasn't it? Out."

"Out doing what, Miss Hume?"

"Saving the world. I'm a superhero, don't cha know. It's what I _do_. I even have a cape and everything, I could model it if you wanted, but I swear to god if you get too excited I'll bust a move on you, because I am not into that kinky 'lets-play-dress-up' sex thing, or the whole, 'oh-professor-I'll-do-anything-for-an-A'!" After finishing off her monologue in a high falsetto voice Morgan added, "No, none of that. If I were to model my costume for you it would merely be on a professional level."

The Charms professor turned a lovely shade of red, "Shut up and sit down, Miss Hume, you're head of house will hear about this."

The rest of the class, holding in their reactions via the palm-on-face-method, remained motionless at their desks.

"Now!" Bragidly's commanding tone filled up the silence in the room, "Since Miss Hume is so fond of jokes, we'll just spend the rest of the period writing a lovely essay about the Unforgiveable Curses we discussed this past Friday. I want at least a foot done by the end of this class, and two feet ready for when we next meet."

No face-on-palm method could stifle the resounding groans.

"Sir," a Hufflepuff named Jordy-something cried out, "How are we supposed to write an essay that long about them?"

Morgan, who had long ago taken her seat, joined in the grumbles, "Yeah, I could pretty much sum that subject up in a sentence: if you see a green light coming towards you— duck, or else you're pretty much screwed."

"Three feet!" Bragidly hollered, "And you all know who to thank for that."

Morgan ducked under her desk to hide away from the glares her classmates shot her. Violetta shook her head mockingly, "Silly little snake," she whispered.

Morgan stuck out her tongue and dragged herself back into her seat, only to find a neatly folded up piece of paper resting there. She recognized the handwriting immediately: Tom's.

Her head snapped up to gaze around the room so fast she was almost sure she would suffer from whiplash later. And for all her effort, the only thing she was rewarded with was the sight of Tom Riddle writing at his annoyingly leisurely pace. It was ridiculous that he could work so slowly and surely and still finish shit in half the time as the other kids.

Morgan sent his back a scowl for good measure before peeling back the paper.

_"Meet me in the usual place tonight—9 o'clock."_

Usual place? Where the fuck was that? Did they even have a usual place? If he was talking about the Room of Requirement then he needed to reword his statement. The Room of Requirement wasn't _their_ space, it was hers—her space that he just so happened to invade. Only Tom would do something so pompous as to assume he was welcomed there whenever he wanted.

Morgan sighed and shuffled her parchment around her desk. There was no avoiding thinking about her previous conversation with Tom now. Ugh, and she had been doing such a good job of pretending it never happened. All it did was make her more confused.

---

_ It was the sound of creaking that eventually woke her up. It was consistent and hard on the ears, so it was impossible to ignore. Opening her eyes was unavoidable, though she tried to put it off for as long as possible. When she did, the creaking was finally dying down. But that was probably due to the fact that Tom was on his feet, stretching. _

_ Oh man, from her vantage point she could see the exposed part of his stomach. He certainly wasn't muscular, not in the slightest, but man, that torso was still something to look at. Those hip bones—_

_ ACK!_

_ Morgan flipped off the bed—a physical reaction to her mental exclamation. What in the hell was she thinking? The boy-man standing in the middle of the room was Tom Riddle. Sure, she wasn't stupid enough to try and deny that he wasn't attractive, but she had to be smart enough to realize that admiring thoughts weren't allowed. _

_ "Sleep well?" _

_ Oh, fuck you._

_ Morgan could just tell from the way his lips were quirked up slightly that he knew what she was looking at. Like his ego needed to get any bigger. _

_ "Oh yes, very well, it was lovely." Good, short and clipped answers._

_ "And falling off the bed, was that lovely as well?" _

_ Fuck you __**sideways**__._

_ "Oh that? That was just…awesome." Morgan dragged herself to her feet, wincing at how tender her back was. All these aching muscles…it was getting ridiculous. She was starting to feel like an old lady._

_ "Good," Tom chuckled, probably at her stupidity, and motioned to the couch. "Sit down, and let's talk."He took a seat in the armchair by the fire. _

_ Begrudgingly, Morgan walked to the couch. When she sat down, she found the cushions were still warm from when Tom was sleeping._

_She tried to mimic the imposing stance Tom had settled himself into—crossing one leg over the other while resting an elbow on one knee and her face in her hand. From the way Tom smirked again, she probably wasn't successful. _

_ "Now that we're comfortable, tell me the truth." _

_ "The truth, about what? You'll have to be more specific." _

_ Tom sighed, "The truth about everything. Where did you come from? How did you get that mark?"_

_ "Oh, heh, that." Morgan gave a sheepish grin, to which Tom responded with a raised eyebrow. This was it. No more lying. Time to come clean._

_ "I grew up in an orphanage. I don't know who my parents were, I don't even know if they're alive." Morgan frowned, "They didn't want me when I was born, so I've never really cared enough to go looking for them. Their loss, ya know?" She had to give it to Tom; he really knew how to listen. He was leaning forward in the chair, his dark eyes gazing at her so deeply that it made her skin tingle— almost like it did before she was about to do a Metamorphmagus transformation._

_ "Anyways, the owner of the orphanage was Father Miller. I used to look up to him. Even though I was different, even though I made weird things happen sometimes, he kept me. I never noticed the way he always refused to give families a chance to adopt me._

_ "I didn't find out I was a witch until I was thirteen." Okay, so maybe she wasn't going to come completely clean. "And I only found out then because a strange man came into town. He seemed to know Father Miller, and Father Miller seemed terrified of him. That man immediately saw me for what I was and offered to take me into his home. He said he would teach me all about my powers, something I had no idea I possessed._

_ "In any case, Miller wasn't too happy. But a quick spell changed that right around. I was soon packing the little things I had in a small suitcase and trailing after my new teacher. Turns out though, Malding was a practitioner of dark magic. He made me get this tattoo; he made me swear servitude to Slytherin's decedent— whoever that person may be. And that's…about it."_

_Sometimes Morgan really felt like commending herself on her ability to lie, honestly, the shit she pulled out of thin air…one would think she was a magician. _

_ "And how did you know about me? How did you know about the Basilisk?"_

_ "I did my research before coming to the school. Malding sent me here to try and find the heir of Slytherin after we heard of the Chamber of Secrets being opened. I knew that Hagrid couldn't have been responsible. I mean, he's a kindhearted Gryffindor; no way could he have killed that ghosty-girl. Besides, it's pretty obvious that Hagrid's so called monster wasn't the one in the Chamber. As for these scars, well, they come with the territory of having an abusive guardian."_

_ Tom actually laughed—a deep high laugh that sounded like dry ice. "You have no idea how many holes there are in your story, how many inconsistencies. How did you know where the Chamber was in the first place? Why did you assume I was the heir? Not to mention; that Malding guy. Hah, ridiculous. You know, I could just find the truth out for myself. No more lies. No more inconsistencies. Just me and all your deep dark secrets."_

_ Morgan pulled off her robe and apprehensively rolled up the sleeves of her shirt. How could she delude herself into thinking her lies were actually solid? She was screwed, no doubt about it. Well, she would die before letting him know the truth. _

_ Tom stood up and ran a hand through his hair, "But that's not what I'm going to do." He turned back to glance at her, and his eyes weren't as hard or sharp. "I was actually counting on an answer like this, perhaps hoping for one as faulty and untruthful." _

_ "Ugh," Morgan sank back down into a lazy position on the couch, "You are so confusing."_

_ "Perhaps I should explain?" _

_ Morgan snorted._

_ "If you would have given me a truthful answer, well then, you wouldn't be __**you**__."_

_ "I'm sorry, but is that supposed to make sense?" _

_ Tom rolled his eyes. "I like all your secrets. Without them, without the way you ludicrously hide them, things wouldn't be the same. If you started telling the truth all of a sudden…you wouldn't be as much fun. Didn't I tell you before that you were either the best spy or the worst spy? I think I've decided that you're the best bad spy there is."_

_ "God, you are seriously messed up. You're actually okay without knowing the truth?" _

_ "I'll find out eventually, it's not like you're going anywhere. Besides, you're eternally loyal to me. Nothing much you can do against me at this point."Tom crossed his arms, "You've been a distraction lately, all I've been able to think about is you."_

_ Why was she blushing? He didn't mean that as a compliment, not in the slightest. So why did she want it to be a compliment? _

_ "You are, perhaps, one of the only people I can't seem to figure out," his eyes narrowed in thought, "Frankly, it's been driving me crazy, which doesn't happen very often." _

_ Now she knew why she wanted to be complimented by him: because she felt honored in some sick way. Tom Riddle was, after all, destined to be one of the most powerful wizards to ever walk the earth. How could she not feel special? _

_ No, no, no. That was bloody stupid._

_ But true nonetheless. _

_ "But I'm determined to turn you into something useful. You'll help me search for the Founders Necklace."_

_ What had she gotten herself into?_

_ She was so fucking stupid._

_---_

"Ugh," Morgan smacked her head against the wooden desk again.

"Leah, might I remind you that the point of an essay is to actually write out ones thoughts?"

"Oh how very insightful of you, Violetta, really, you deserve to win a Pulitzer's Prize for that one."

"Isn't that some American thing?" The blond witch wrinkled her nose. "Where do you get these things, Leah?"

"Beats the hell out of me," Morgan groaned in response, looking around at the other students. The class period was just about to be over, and everyone was still ferociously writing. Well, everyone besides Riddle of course. When Morgan's gaze slid over to him, he was sitting calmly in his chair, all his materials packed up already. As if feeling her gaze on him, he spared her a quick and amused glance.

"Ugh." Her head smacked against the desk again.

"Really, Leah, your etiquette has been suffering as of late," Violetta scolded lightly as the passing bell tolled in the distance. "Is there something you want to talk about?"

"No," Morgan grumbled, dodging Isabella's attempted shoulder jab as they exited the classroom. "I've just been…tired, is all I guess."

"Big surprise there," Violetta sighed, "I guess we can always talk about it when you're ready. Anyways it's time for Transfiguration."

Morgan nodded, following her friend down the school hallways and ducking whenever she caught sight of a large Gryffindor. She still had no idea what she was going to say to James. It was tough.

When the duo had finally reached Dumbledore's classroom, Morgan had thought herself into a circle.

On one side, she knew there was no way in hell she was staying in the past. So it would be unfair to allow James' feelings to manifest. Besides, who even said she liked him?

On the other side James was…nice. Kind, even, and quite unlike any person she had ever met. She liked how safe she felt when she was with him, and his muscles…well, they weren't too bad either.

But then she thought about Tom. Now why they hell he even mattered in this instance was yet to be discovered. She didn't know why she thought about him, just that she did.

Damn, who knew her stupid mission would involve so many stupid hormones?

Morgan scowled and took a seat in the back of Dumbledore's classroom. Violetta, naturally, took the seat beside her. "You really look like you're killing yourself," the witch muttered, pausing to extract her quill and other notes. "It's not good to keep things bottled up inside, you know."

Oh man, if only Violetta knew how much shit Morgan had bottled up inside. The potentially dangerous game of cat and mouse she played with a certain future Dark Lord, James, finding the stupid Founders Necklace, dealing with stupid thoughts about a certain future Dark Lord, her dumb inability to perform a Metamorphmagus transformation, ugh, the list just kept getting bigger and bigger.

Life just really sucked sometimes.

"Okay, class, today I would like to take the time gather the group of students eligible to learn to become an Animagus. In this class, I do believe we only have five students: Leah Hume, Violetta Fanding, Tom Riddle, Jeremiah Mincus, and Dmitri Copper." Dumbledore peered over his glasses, "Out of those whose name I called, is there anyone who would like to decline my offer?"

For a long moment, no one raised their hand. But then…

"I, uh, decline, professor. Respectfully, of course," Morgan fiddled with her fingers, glancing up at Dumbledore through her hair.

Dumbledore appeared to see through her for a few minutes before he nodded, "Very well then, if I may I have some of your time after class, though, Miss Hume?"

Morgan shrugged, "Sure, sir." She tried to ignore the incredulous gaze almost everyone in the class gave her, including Violetta.

"I thought we both agreed that we would do this if we got the chance, remember, at the beginning of the year?"

"We never agreed to anything, Violetta, we were barely even friends then." Morgan hadn't meant for the reply to come out so scathing, but it did.

"I see," Fanding turned back to her work. Gone was the friendly air about them, replaced was a frosty silence. But what was more, Morgan didn't even care about apologizing.

The rest of the class passed by without much incident, except for the fact that Dumbledore's eyes kept trailing back to her, his gaze calculating. The slightly higher level transfiguration they practiced left her a bit tired out, and more than a little depressed.

Whenever she transfigured something with her wand it reminded her of the empty void in her heart—the place where her Metamorphmagus abilities should have been. That place was like a black hole inside of her, constantly taking away bits and pieces of her and never giving any of them back.

By the time the class bell had wrung, Morgan had smacked her head against the desk five more times.

"Now, now, my dear, that can't be too good for your health." Dumbledore waved his wand, shutting the classroom door after the last student left and taking a seat across from Morgan.

"I think I'll survive," Morgan mumbled to the table. "Dying just isn't that easy."

The young witch straightened her back to see her professor mouthing a quick spell. When she looked at him curiously he gave her a sly smile. "It's a precaution, I assure you, to make sure we are not overheard."

Morgan leaned back in her chair, "Dumbledore, why did you want to talk to me?"

"Always to the point," Dumbledore sighed, "It's an admirable quality, though sometimes pleasantries are welcomed as well." When Morgan met his words with a blank stare, he folded his arms upon her desk, "I wished to speak with you because I feel as if there is something you are not telling me," piercing blue eyes stared at her seriously, "And I want you to know that you can talk about it with me, no matter what."

Well, in that case…

Morgan cleared her throat, "Sir, can I ask you a hypothetical question?"

"Certainly."

"Hypothetically, if someone were to say, oh I dunno, travel through time to complete some daring mission that should have totally been given to a more competent person…would the aforementioned someone suffer from any lasting side-affects?" Morgan was, of course, thinking again about the loss of her Metamorphmagus abilities. There could be some correlation between time traveling and that.

Dumbledore smiled kindly and shifted in his seat, pushing his bright blue robe—

the one dotted with moons—aside, "It would depend upon how far back they were traveling, and for how long they planned to stay."

How was it that Dumbledore could see through her with just one small gaze and a couple of sentences? Morgan already felt like a smaller person under his scrutiny.

"Let's say this person was going back fifty years, and was staying there for a year or so."

Dumbledore frowned, "That would be very dangerous."

Morgan slumped forward in her seat and let her head hit the table again, "Eh?"

"No one is meant to travel through time, my dear. Time is such a fickle thing, almost like a living person. When someone ventures so drastically outside of their designated time period…well, time tries to correct the mistake."

"I really don't like the sound of this."

"Essentially, though it of course has never been proven, if someone were to travel so far back in time as you said, and stayed in the past for such a long time, they would die."

Oh, goddamn it.

"It wouldn't be a fast death, either, no; time would slowly break down the traveler's body until there was nothing left."

Morgan felt the muscles in her arm twitch painfully.

Oh no.

"That is why it is important for a time traveler to always have a way to get back to their own time." Dumbledore patted her arm, "Now, hypothetically speaking, does this time traveler have a way to get back to home?"

"Yeah," Morgan answered hollowly, unconsciously clenching her muscles, "She does."

"Well then, there is nothing to worry about. Now, though I would normally push an academically inclined student like you to learn how to become an Animagus, I think I can make an exception. You have a lot on your plate, it seems."

Morgan attempted to smile, but it came out as a grimace. "Thank you, sir."

"No need, now then, off you go. If you wish to have any more hypothetical discussions, then feel free to stop by." Dumbledore smiled calmly, gently leading the way out of the classroom, "Now, please do try and hurry to get to your Care of Magical Creatures class."

---

Just what she needed—a time limit! A freaking time limit to complete an almost impossible task!

Morgan stomped down the corridors, flailing her arms every which way. How was she supposed to find that stupid necklace with time slowly breaking down her body and freaking Riddle on her ass?

Fate was cruel. No, more than that, fate was a stone-cold bitch.

And of course, Morgan just had to be the butt of the joke.

"You know what? I don't even feel like going to class. What's the point?" Morgan stopped her rampage through the halls and slumped down in one of the deserted corners.

"I agree."

Morgan jumped in surprise, watching as James appeared out of nowhere. "Holy shit, Jesus Christ, what the hell!"

In all his tall glory, James grinned, folding a cloak around his arms. "This, my friend, is an Invisibility Cloak. It belongs to Charlus, pretty damn good, isn't it?"

Morgan watched, dumbfounded, "Holy hell." She waved a hand over her tired face, "That is pretty good. Where the hell did Potter get a treasure like that?"

"Who knows?" James sat down and gave Morgan a timid smile. "So, do you want to talk now?"

James' meek manner left Morgan reeling. The huge Gryffindor was usually imposing, completely assertive. How could she say no? Wiping all thoughts of death, time-limits, and means of traveling through time from her head, Morgan patted the ground beside her. "Yeah."

James took a seat beside her on the floor and began unwrapping the Invisibility Cloak. He shrugged, "Just so no one sees us. I'm supposed to be in Potions." He tried to drape the cloak over both of their bodies, but it didn't exactly work out.

James sighed; noticing the way Morgan tried to put as much space as possible between them, "Don't be such a baby." He gently grabbed one of her arms and dragged her tightly into his side. "There," the cloak easily fit the both of them then, thanks to the adjustments made to their positions.

"Won't someone hear us?" Morgan hissed, her cheeks flushed red with embarrassment.

"Oh, right," James gave another grin before awkwardly reaching over Morgan's torso to get his wand. He whispered a quick incantation, "There, nice and sound proof."

"Yeah." Morgan scratched the back of her head while trying to move. It felt weird to be so close to James, especially after the way she had left things.

"Look, Leah, I really like you. A lot. And I know you like me; at least I hope you do. Don't you just, I don't know. Don't you want to at least try? If it doesn't work, then fine. At least we gave it a shot." James' arms came to encircle her waist, wrapping themselves around her body. Morgan had to crane her neck back to see his face: his sharp jaw-line, intense eyes, jagged scars, and slightly crooked nose (he must have broken it before). She drank it all in before gently reaching her hand up to pat his cheek.

His skin felt soft under her touch, though a tad bit stubbly. Morgan was allowed to let her fingers to trail the indented skin of his scars for a few seconds before his hand caught hers. "Let me try something, please?"

Morgan already knew what was coming next. She gulped, "Uh, sure."

That's when James kissed her.

His lips were soft, almost unbearably so—they made her chapped lips feel imperfect. She tried to pull away then, gently, but James wouldn't let her go. One of his hands came up to cup her cheek, something he used as leverage to draw her in further. His other free hand trailed up and down her side, tracing patterns into her lower back and stomach. It wasn't until his tongue traced her lips, licking and nipping softy, that she put more force into separating their two bodies.

James backed away then, breathing heavily and smiling. He leaned forward and kissed her nose, then each of her eyelids. They were butterfly kisses that made her feel even worse for what she was about to do.

"James," she cleared her throat, trying to get her thoughts in order. "I can't do this with you. Not right now. I have a lot of things I need to sort out."

James' emerald eyes darkened, "You have things you need to sort out? I'm looking for the sole remains of my family, and you're telling me you have to sort things out? I'm tired of excuses and dodgy answers, just tell me the truth: do you like me?"

"Yes." And she did. At least she thought she did. But there were so many things wrong. So many unwanted thoughts in her head and so many things to sort through. How could she continue with her mission when she had to think about James?

Hands folded themselves around her cheeks once more, "Then we'll do this." James kissed here again, this time with more force. His arm around her waist drew her in even tighter, putting their bodies flush against each other. He took advantage of Morgan's resounding gasp to deepen the kiss.

She had never felt more confused in her life.

---

It was 9:05 pm when Morgan finally reached the Room of Requirement. She had spent most of her free afternoon with James. He had never let go of her hand once, something that Charlus and Kayden loved to comment on. It was beyond annoying.

She still hadn't decided how exactly she felt about her current situation. She knew that being in something as silly as a relationship that couldn't last was stupid, but she still couldn't bring herself to call things off.

Boy, was she pathetic.

Morgan tried to push her thoughts away and entered the room. Tom was already sitting on the couch, a multitude of books and parchment pieces sprawled out before him. He glanced up briefly, acknowledging her with a smirk. "You're late."

"Yeah, well, such is life." Morgan dropped her bag and sank into the arm chair, observing the fact that the bed was still in the room. "You planning on sleeping in here often?"

Tom rolled his eyes, "No, not particularly. I thought that was your job." His hands grazed over a few books before he found what he was looking for. "Why are your cheeks flushed?"

Morgan drew her eyes away from the floor to give him a questioning stare, "Huh?"

"Your cheeks," Tom said dully, cocking his head to the side, "They're flushed."

"I don't know," Morgan scowled, "Not like it's any of your business." She began pulling out books from her bag, since she didn't write that stupid Charms paper in class, she would have to do it now…

Suddenly, her chin was yanked back. Tom had appeared in front of her silently, his hand pushing her head back so he could gaze at the marks on her neck. He wrinkled his nose in what looked like disgust. "Did that Gryffindor do this?"

Morgan slapped his hand away, "Like I said, none of your business."

Tom leaned away from her and sat down on the table, "Wrong, it is my business." He crossed his arms defiantly and paused, waiting.

"You're fucking impossible," Morgan snapped, knowing that he was waiting for her to ask him to elaborate. "Please, do tell me why my romantic life is any concern of yours."

"It's my concern because if you get distracted you won't be much use in helping me find the Founders Necklace. Besides, how are you going to be in a relationship based on lies?"

Morgan glared at him, "At least I'm not using James as some sick alibi."

"True," Tom commented dryly, "But I harbored no feelings towards Isabella in the first place. You, on the other hand, actually like that Gryffindor, no matter how little. Allowing the relationship to continue would only end up hurting him in the end."

"Shut up, Tom," Morgan ground out, "I didn't ask for your advice anyways. And what do you mean, 'how little'?"

"I mean, you obviously don't like the Gryffindor that much."

"Yeah, and how the hell do you know that?"

"Because I've seen the way you look at _me_." Tom balanced a single book in his hand, skimming over its contents and then glancing up towards Morgan again.

The very little color she had drained from her cheeks and her fists were clenched at her sides, "What are you talking about? I hate you Tom Riddle."

"No, I don't think you hate me. I think you hate yourself."

Morgan jumped to her feet and strode towards Tom. She poked him straight in the chest, "Listen to me right now, I don't know what you did to make yourself so delusional, because you're obviously very sick in the head, I don't like you. Why is it that you're so full of yourself?"

Tom sighed, "Women, always make things so unnecessarily complicated." He grabbed Morgan's wrist, standing up and leading her slowly back to the wall. Her breath caught in her throat as he pushed himself against her, not too hard but not infuriatingly gentle, either. While one of his hands still held a book at his side, the other very slowly traced a path across her cheek and down her side.

It was becoming very hard to breath.

"You see?" Tom laid his head in the crook of her neck, speaking silkily into her ear. "You can tell me all you want how much you hate me because as long as I can still do this to you," he bent down even further and gently nipped her ear, causing a tremor to run through her body, "We'll both know you're lying."

And then he pulled away, seating himself back down on the table, "Oh, and another reason why it's my business: I don't exactly like people pawing over my stuff."

Morgan slowly sank to the floor, blinking rapidly and wondering when her body started to betray her.

Maybe Riddle was right, maybe she did hate herself, not him. Maybe she hated herself from the start. She always knew she was handling the mission with incompetence, and then there was that way she always gave Riddle a reason to come after her. Perhaps she had been attracted to him from the start, and rather than hate herself for liking a man destined to be evil, she desperately tried to hate him.

Or maybe, maybe this was all a part of Tom's plan. Maybe he was making her feel this way, just to confuse her and to get her to doubt herself.

Morgan watched Tom study the pieces of parchment on the small table. He glanced up at her, and raised his eyebrow, "Is there a problem?"

Yes.

"No."

"Good, then make yourself useful, I think I've gotten a lead to the Founders Necklace."

Morgan settled herself near the table and waited for Tom to speak again, all the while watching the way her hands twitched uncontrollably.

She began to wonder when everything got so fucked up.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**A/N:** This is the longest chapter I have ever written. I just wrote it all tonight, too, on freaking New Years. Please excuse me while I try and go search for an actual life. Anyways, thanks to all those who reviewed, it really made my day. Especially to **Shingie**--they actually wrote me like six reviews, KUDOS, you are quite the trooper. Next chapter coming out soon. Thanks again to anyone who faved/alerted.

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen: An Ungodly Long Chapter**

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Morgan shifted her eyes away from the floor to look up at Tom. Sighing, she crossed her legs and balanced her elbow on her knee. When she rested her face on her open palm seconds later, she sighed loudly.

"You've never been one to sulk. So just get it over with and tell me what's bothering you."

Morgan puckered her lips, "I'm just wondering why you have to be so good at this."

Tom Riddle replaced one of the many scraps of parchment back on the table. He angled his body towards her and cocked his head to the side. "What?"

Morgan glared at the fireplace. "I'm just wondering why you're so good at making me feel so goddamn confused. Right now I wouldn't be able to tell you what's up and what's down." Her shaky finger began combing through the carpet fibers. "You're pretty good at making me feel bad too, "she paused, "Oh and angry, but I suspect you already knew that one."

Tom caught on quickly and shrugged, "I was merely stating the facts: your actions make it quite obvious you harbor feelings for me."

Morgan blushed furiously. "You can't treat people's feelings like facts, Tom!"

"And why not?"

"Because feelings aren't facts! They aren't set in stone; they're always changing. Fuck, this is what I mean; you're making me all confused again, and I still haven't decided whether or not you're purposely making me think there's something going on between us."

"Going on between us?" Tom blinked stupidly, "Your feelings are entirely one-sided, I assure you."

Morgan blushed again, though this time it was out of a dejected embarrassment. Shit, why was she even feeling rejected? Up until fifteen minutes ago she hadn't doubted that she hated Tom, and now she was considering the fact that she actually liked him. This had to be some kind of trick.

"Are you actually…mad?" Tom's pale lips parted in surprise and perhaps a little bit of pleasure. "You're angry that I don't return your feelings?"

"Agh!" Morgan covered her ears with her hands, "Stop talking about feelings! La la la la, I can't fucking hear you."

There was a moment of silence, and then Tom actually laughed.

"It's not funny! Shut up! Besides, I don't have feelings for you," she wrinkled her nose, as if the word made her physically sick, "It's just that you're incredibly good looking. It's the hormones. You would react the same way if you were in the same position."

Tom snorted, "Hardly, Leah."

Morgan jumped to her feet, outraged, "Yeah, okay, I know you're some sort of all time powerful wizard, but you're still a _guy_!"

"And?"

"And that means if some extremely attractive girl went around invading your personal space, touching you all up and down your sides, and freaking biting your ear, then you would have the same reaction. It's only natural." Morgan placed her hands on her hips, staring the dark haired Slytherin down.

"Well, seeing as there is no extremely attractive girl here to test that theory, I'll have to take your word for it." Tom leaned back on the couch, gauging her reaction and apparently finished with whatever he had been looking at.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure I hate you now," Morgan flopped down in the armchair, "Have you ever even liked a girl before?"

"No, not particularly."

"What about a guy?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Tom scowled, a slight pink tinting his cheeks.

"Hey, I'm not one to judge."

"Shut up, Leah."

"Fine, fine, ever taken one on a date, a girl I mean?"

"Yes, but you already knew the answer to that."

"Fine," Morgan huffed, "Have you ever kissed anyone before?"

Tom smirked, "I think you know the answer to that one, too."

Morgan glared, thinking about the time Tom had forced himself on her. "I hope you haven't kissed any other girls like that. The taste of blood isn't exactly appetizing."

"You didn't seem to mind it too much," Tom replied lazily, having gained back his confident demeanor.

"What! That was disgusting!" Morgan swiped the back of her wrist across her mouth at the memory. "Ew."

"Such an action wouldn't have been necessary if you would have stopped fighting me."

"Naw, I think it's more than that. You were getting into it."

"No, you were just being difficult."

It was infuriating the way he kept his tone completely calm and under control while she was on the verge of shouting.

When she told him this, he shrugged.

"It appears we are always returning the favor to one another," he mused, "Though I am learning to enjoy your company now instead of loath it—hence the reason for requesting you to come meet me tonight."

"I'm here…right now…because you wanted my company?" The words sputtered out of Morgan's mouth. "Gah!" She threw her hands in the air. "Do you know how many more important things I could be doing now?"

"Entertaining Darley is hardly important," Tom replied back, stiffly.

"You!" she shook a thin finger at him, "You…you are an asshole! ASS-HOLE!"

Tom smirked, "That's not very nice. Watch your language."

"Fuck you! I do not spend my time _entertaining_ Darley!"

"The evidence is written all over your neck," Tom pointed out, "For the entire world to see…unfortunately."

"You know what, I give up, I really do. I'm not going to let myself be bothered by your immaturity anymore."

"Me? Immature? This coming from the person that jumped on my back in the library?"

"And attacked you in a lone dark corridor."

"Straddled would be the better word," Tom corrected Morgan, much to her displeasure. Right before she could object to the term, Tom intervened, "It doesn't matter," he said sternly. "There's another reason why you're here, besides for stroking my ego."

"Oh ha, ha, we have a funny guy on our hands," Morgan muttered.

Tom leaned forward, placing his hands on the wooden coffee table before him. "It's about the Founders Necklace. I know where it is."

"Hmm, you don't say," Morgan tried not to grimace.

Tom smirked a bit, "If I recall correctly, the Founders Necklace was the reason you went scouring through the Chamber of Secrets in the first place, but how much do you really know about it?"

Now that Morgan thought about it, she really didn't know much about the necklace, besides the fact that she was supposed to keep it away from Tom.

"Uh, it's pretty."

"Pretty?" Tom grinned, "You are quite amusing sometimes." He stood up from the couch and loosened his tie. "We know it was made by the four founders, however, not much else. Its power and the way it can be harnessed remains to be seen. I have some strong suspicions, though." He was pacing now.

"You think it will grant you immortality." Morgan filled in the blanks, dully.

Tom glared at her, displeased by her response for some reason. "Yes," he ground out.

"Huh." Morgan paused, wondering what the whole appeal to immortality was. She figured in the end, only someone who feared death would seek it. Was Tom afraid of death? "Tom, can I ask you a question?"

Tom was leaning near the fireplace. The flickering flames cast shadows on his face, making his high cheek bones more prominent in the light. He looked gorgeous. He eyed her curiously, "Yes?"

"Eh, never mind," there was a high probability the question would anger him, and that was definitely not a good thing. "You know where the necklace is?" she asked instead.

Tom sighed, "I do. Grindelwald is searching for the artifact too. I'm not sure how close he is to finding it. Such a shame that we will have to wait so long to act; Christmas break is a long way off, nearly a month. What an inconvenience."

"Were going to get the necklace during Christmas? At least we have time to plan."

Tom rolled his eyes, "Correct. But we don't need time to plan, I already have a plan."

"And I don't suppose you're going to tell me it."

"No, not yet at least," Tom rolled up his sleeves before crossing his arms. He returned to the couch and trailed a hand over the papers gathered there. "There's only one thing I can't seem to figure out." He was talking to himself.

Morgan pushed herself further into her chair, suddenly feeling very tired. The spasms in her hands were dulling down, at least. Only occasionally would she catch her fingers twitching. She was dying faster than she thought.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she registered that Riddle was talking to her again, but that was suddenly inconsequential. The impending darkness stole away all of her attention, and moments later she was asleep.

---

When Morgan awoke an hour and a half before breakfast the next morning, she was slightly surprised to find herself resting in a bed. What she wasn't surprised to discover was Tom's absence from the Room of Requirement.

She got up and stretched, wincing at the burning feeling dancing throughout her arms and shoulders. After glancing around the room, she found all of the papers Tom had been looking at last night gone. It was like he had never even been there.

Ah well, she had been hoping to get a peek at some of those important pieces of parchment. She supposed worse things in the world had happened, though, and resolved to find more about the necklace's location later.

Having Tom include her in his plans was kind of bitter sweet. On one hand, Riddle was definitely more than ten steps ahead of her: he knew things that she hadn't even begun to discover, and now he was sharing them. On the other, her overall objective would be harder to obtain with her enemy breathing down her neck.

The word enemy echoed in her head. Was he really her enemy still? He should be. But was he?

"This kind of thinking is deserving of some sugar," Morgan mumbled to herself before slipping out of the room and towards the dungeons. She still had plenty of time to shower and change. After she did that, she would grab some candy.

---

"So it's finally happened, eh?"

"I believe it has, Mr. Potter, our dear snake—"

"—has won the heart of Scarface. How—"

"—romantic," Kayden finished, slapping his arm on Morgan's shoulder. "But of course we knew it would happen."

"Too true, mate," Charlus grinned, "Ever since you sent those birds after him, we knew it."

"Ah, young love!" Kayden steered her away from the Great Hall entrance and towards the Gryffindor table.

"Who said anything about love," Morgan scowled, taking quick glances around the room, "And keep it down, would you? I don't want to give the Slytherins another reason to bash my head in."

"Oh cheer up," Potter chortled, "Christmas is almost here!" He fell back behind her and pushed down on her shoulders, forcing her onto the breakfast bench.

Morgan was about to retort when James arrived. "Leave my girl alone," he joked, sliding into the free seat beside her and throwing an arm over her shoulder. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek gently.

Morgan forced a smile on her face, but being with James after her conversation with Tom was almost impossible. "Yeah, leave me alone, you bum-rags."

"Your girl is quite charming," Potter said, piling his plate with any type of food containing grease.

"At least he has a girl," Kayden chirped.

James snorted, but otherwise ignored the both of them. "You want anything, Leah?" He had already finished getting his own plate together, and his hand hovered over the fruit bowl, looking at her questioningly.

For some reason, the action hit her hard. He really didn't know her, did he? She hated fruit. Despised it, actually. But then again, whose fault was that. Her own, obviously. How was he supposed to get to know her if she refused to volunteer any information about herself? How could she, though, when the existence of Leah Hume was one based upon lies?

She bit her lip and fiddled with her fingers under the table, "No thanks," she said after awhile. "Not hungry." She stood up suddenly, "I think I'm going to head to double Potions early, I'll see you all later."

Morgan tried to ignore James' hurt gaze as she strolled away, her hands stuck in her pockets. But after taking a quick detour by the kitchens and picking up some Red Vines, James and his feelings were rather easy to forget.

She was just beginning to chew on her fourth string of licorice, her eyes sliding over the dungeon stones but not really seeing them, when a pair of hands extended from the shadows and pulled her backwards. Morgan was pretty sure she heard the slamming of a door behind her, and then she was shoved up against a wall.

"Easy there, I bruise easily," she muttered around her candy, straining her eyes to adjust to the darkness. They had to be in a broom closet or something, because a mop was digging into her back.

"Shut up, whore."

"Those are fighting words, my friend," Morgan said apathetically. Someone was in front of her, lifting her up by the front of her robes.

"Friend?" a voice exclaimed from her left, "What a ridiculous notion. Friends of Slytherin don't fraternize with Mudbloods, Gryffindor Mudbloods no less."

Morgan spat in the face of her attacker. "Suck on that, you tosser."

Morgan wasn't sure if the guy holding her up called her a bitch, or if it was someone else on her right, because at the same moment she was slammed back into the wall. Her head knocked against the stone, and it took a moment to regain her bearings.

She was, however, very much so aware of the wand digging into her neck. "I'll just curse her right now and be done with it."

"Don't," the guy on her right hissed, "She isn't worth it."

"You're right," the one in front of her snarled, "I wouldn't touch her with a ten foot pole."

Morgan scrunched her face up, "You're touching me right now," she pointed out with little confusion.

Someone slapped her. Whoever it was wore a big ring and had a mean backhand. Her head was mashed against the wall…again, and she bit down on her lip harshly in surprise. It started bleeding.

"You slap like a girl," Morgan slurred, trying to goad her attackers further. It was utterly dark inside the closet, so she really had no idea who it was assaulting her. Perhaps if she kept them talking she would be able to recognize their voices.

Instead of getting angry, however, the guy with the ring started laughing. "Oh, I may slap like a girl, but I'm certainly not one." Morgan winced when she felt the guy running his hand up her leg, gradually going higher and higher until her skirt started hiking up. "You like that?" He whispered huskily in her ear.

"Erm, no, not particularly, sorry chap. If you're trying to seduce me, you're doing a right awful job."

Another few choice curses were thrown her way, and the hand on her leg darted up to strike her face once more. Oh, the guy was definitely wearing a big ring, one with a lot of sharp points.

"Who would want you, anyways," the guy snarled, "You're so bony, and your mouth is way too big." He pushed himself flush against her, forcefully spreading her legs with his free hands. Morgan grappled with the front lapels of his robes, trying to push him away. "But maybe if we had more time I could get over that," he seemed pleased by her slightly more fearful reaction.

She heard laughter coming from both her left and right. Perhaps a different approach needed to be taken.

Instead of pushing her attacker away, Morgan pulled him closer and rammed her head into his. He pushed her away with a hiss.

"Woah…" the darkness swam in front of her, "Head rush."

"You're a dead woman," the same thick voice that had tried seducing her seconds before was now drawn with rage.

One of the man's giggling lackeys stopped him from doing whatever it was he was planning to, luckily, and whispered, "We need to get out of here. Classes are about to start."

"Right," there was the sound of a door opening and shutting, and then nothing.

"Tuesday mornings suck," Morgan grumbled, tentatively touching her face. "Ouch." She reached into her pocket and pulled out another licorice stick, sighing in relief when she tasted the familiar sugar.

Morgan took only a few more seconds to compose herself before shuffling out of the closet. Due to her already weakening body, the hits she received during the assault left her more shaken than usual.

Getting bullied was something she was used to, though, so she didn't give it another thought. She needed to get to Potions, before the bell tolled, too.

Thankfully, the closet she had been pulled into was rather close to her classroom. She made it just as the bell rung. Unfortunately, everyone else in the class was already seated by the time she entered, and turned to watch her approach.

Kayden squirmed in his seat, gaping at her, "Blimey," he breathed.

"My dear," Slughorn cawed, "What happened to your face?"

Morgan ignored the stares she received and settled herself next to Violetta. "Fell down the stairs," she grunted, not even bothering to make the lie more convincing. "I'm very clumsy, you see."

"Try to be more careful, won't you?" Slughorn chortled. He turned his attention back to the rest of the class. "Now, today I have a very special potion we will be working with: _Amortentia. _It's the strongest love potion known in the world."

The burly professor approached a table in the middle of the room. A black pot sat on it, whose cover was peeled back. A pearly sheen rose from the cauldrons' depths in spirals. "The potion will smell differently to each person, depending on what they are attracted to. Now it's important to know that this potion cannot create love—that is impossible, it merely causes infatuation and obsession, both very dangerous things. Would you all like to have a sniff?"

Most of the girls in the room let out dreamy sighs, gazing at the potion with longing. Morgan turned her eyes away from the cauldron to glance at Tom. He wasn't facing her, but she could make out the tight tendon in his jaw. He was angry.

"What a joke," Morgan muttered. She peeked at Violetta from the corner of her eye, remembering that they parted on undesirable terms yesterday.

The blond witch sighed, "I wholeheartedly agree. And yes, Leah, I forgive you. It seems as if you have enough to worry about, and there's no need to put unnecessary strain on our friendship."

"Merlin, you're perceptive," Morgan grinned, wincing in pain when her sore skin stretched. "Sorry for being a bitch."

"There's nothing to apologize for, besides your poor language," Fanding replied, pushing away from the desk. A line had begun forming in front of the love potion sample.

"Right, now let's all lean over, take a sniff, and tell the rest of the class what you smell," Slughorn beamed as an eager Ravenclaw practically tossed herself in the cauldron.

For a moment the girl closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The potion turned a bright yellow color and she smiled, "Smells like pine," she whispered, a giggle fighting its way from her throat. She peeked shyly at Kayden.

Morgan watched with disinterest as the three other girls in the class stepped forward. Only when it was Kayden's turn did she actually pay attention. His stuck his neck out swiftly, taking one short breath before pulling back. "Smells like some flower or something," he mumbled dismissively.

Morgan saw the Ravenclaw girl ask her friend to sniff her hair. "Does it smell like a flower?" she demanded softly.

Violetta chuckled. She was up. It only took her seconds to announce the potion smelled like the Quidditch pitch. Morgan guessed she really did care about Braxton. Weird.

Then it was Morgan's turn. She leaned over the cauldron for a few seconds, her dark hair nearly spilling into the potion. It turned a dark green color, so dark it almost seemed black. After several moments she pulled away from the pot, her skin a sickly pale color. "Uhm, it, uh, smelled crisp, like a morning after it snows, and, uh, good cologne," her eyes darted from the floor to the ceiling in quick succession.

She shuffled back to the other side of the room then, sitting down in one of the free chairs and putting her face in her hands. Violetta came to sit by her, and rubbed her shoulder in a rare display of concern. "Are you…okay?"

Morgan's eyes flitted upwards, "Erm, no, I'm feeling kind of woozy, must've been from my tumble down the stairs."

"Maybe you should go to the infirmary."

"No." Morgan watched as Tom approached the cauldron. The potion turned a cold blue color. As he walked away from the table, she found all traces of his anger had vanished; he appeared bored more than anything else.

"Some type of citrus, with something floral mixed in, sir," he said, offhandedly. A few of the girls in the class began whispering heatedly, letting out sharp giggles every once and awhile.

"Leah, you really don't look good," Violetta reiterated.

"Don't worry about it, Fanding," Morgan said, leaning back in her chair. "It will pass in a few moments." She rubbed her sore head and silently pondered what she had smelled in the potion. True, there had been hints of cologne and snow, but she had recognized another smell as well.

Death.

"Right class, very good, now before we go on to make this very special potion I would like to remind you all about my Christmas party. It's on December the 18 from seven to eleven. Please do bring a date," Slughorn smiled and clapped his hands together in excitement. "Only Slug Club members, though, please."

Morgan bit back a groan.

"The winter Hogsmeade trip is coming up this Saturday, so if you find yourself in dire need of formal wear, that would be the time to get it. I hope to see you there!"

"What a bore," Morgan grumbled, slouching in her desk and blowing away some stray pieces of hair in her face. Thankfully, the bout of dizziness was passing. "You going to go?"

"Yes, I do believe Braxton will enjoy another opportunity to flaunt his good looks." Fanding pulled out her Potions text book, her eyes on the chalk board. Slughorn had begun writing down their assignment. "Who will you bring?"

For some reason, Morgan chanced a glance at Tom. He was sitting next to Avery, idling flicking through his own Potions book. She briefly wondered why he had seemed so angry at the beginning of class.

"I don't know," Morgan answered truthfully. "Probably James. I mean, he'll expect me to invite him anyways."

"You do not seem too excited about it."

"The party? Of course not, I hate parties."

"No, about dating James," Violetta clarified. "You shouldn't pursue a relationship with someone if you are unhappy in it. Especially now, when there's a high chance James will ask you to marry him."

"Meh," Morgan started pulling out their shared cauldron and measuring utensils, mulling over Fanding's words. Tom had said the same thing. "I dunno," she said, "It's only been a day, so I guess I'll just have to see how it goes."

"Yes, it's only been a day and you're already getting beaten up over it."

"A mild inconvenience."

"No, a dangerous one," Violetta sighed, "Just be careful."

When Morgan declared careful was her middle name, Fanding shook her head. "No," she had said, "Reckless is."

---

"I wonder, what happened to your face?" Tom asked, leaning against a small doorway leading into the entrance hall.

"You wonder about a lot of things," Morgan responded, shifting her body so that she was turned slightly towards him and slightly away from him. The hall was filled with students third year and up, all gathered to wait for the Hogsmeade carriages. James was waiting somewhere in the fray and she winced at the thought.

She had originally begun the week off with optimistic thoughts about her relationship with him; unfortunately, she found she was better suited for being a pessimist.

It wasn't that James did anything wrong, per say…it was just that…well…she glanced at Tom again.

"Yes, I do," he said, "And you hide a lot of things from me."

"I was under the impression you preferred things this way."

"At times," Tom admitted, "Other times the truth makes for a better story than a lie."

"Fine," she took a few quick steps into the shadows and started down the stairs towards the dungeons. She stopped halfway down the staircase, "It's more private down here."

"Decidedly so," the Slytherin heir agreed. He waited a step above her to hear the story.

Morgan frowned at the blatant display of superiority, but relayed to him the details of her attacking regardless. "He was wearing a big ring," she concluded minutes later. "A really big ring."

Tom smirked, "I can see that," he mumbled. He reached forward and touched her tender cheek. "I daresay that the emblem was imprinted on your skin."

Morgan shrugged, batting his hand away with an impatient movement. "Aw well, it's getting better." And it was. The skin had turned a slight yellow color. It was ugly, but a sign that some healing process was taking place.

"Why didn't you get someone to heal it? Or go to the Hospital Wing for that matter?"

"It's just a bruise!" Morgan exclaimed, "You have no idea how long James bothered me about it."

Tom frowned at the mention of her date, but said nothing more. He began to start up the stairs, believing the conversation to be over.

Morgan reached out an arm and grabbed onto the corner of his jacket. He paused and turned to her curiously. "Yes?"

"Erm, long time no see," Morgan said tactlessly, before scratching the back of her head sheepishly.

"Leah, I saw you yesterday afternoon in Ancient Runes. I hardly call that a long time." Tom crossed his arms, "What do you want?"

"I've been meaning to ask you something, actually," Morgan shot back. When she received confirmation that Tom was listening she went on. "Why were you angry in Potions on Tuesday?"

Tom's eyes widened in marginal surprise, "Why do you think I was angry?"

"You were clenching your jaw." Morgan mimicked his stance, "So I was curious as to why something as simple as a love potion would make you upset."

"I was not upset."

Morgan raised her eyebrow. That proved it. His voice had darkened when he answered her. Something had bothered him. "Now who's the one lying?"

"Well then, if I tell you why I was angry will you tell me why you lied about what the potion smelled like to you?"

His lips pulled upwards when he noticed Morgan's dumbfounded expression. "How did you know?"

"You've been lying to me since we met, Leah, I find it fairly easy now to determine when you are being truthful. So, do we have a deal?"

"Fine," Morgan growled, "I smelled something I didn't like, okay? Your turn."

"I was reminded of something I didn't like," Tom responded, just as easily. "There, are we done now?"

"I suppose so."

"Good. Oh, and one more thing. I need the room tonight, so you'll have to sleep in the dorms for once."

Morgan furrowed her brows. Tom hadn't met her in the Room of Requirement since Monday, nor had he bothered her about it. What could he being doing? When she asked him, he didn't respond, and instead left her on the stairs.

Fine, she thought darkly, what did she care anyways? He could do whatever he wanted. She would just go and spend a lovely day with her lovely date.

She inwardly flinched at that particular thought.

Eh.

---

Morgan trailed next to James, her hand clasped in his as she vainly tried to catch snowflakes on her tongue.

"You are such a child," her date pulled her closer, tucking her into his side. "Thanks for coming with me today."

Morgan tried not to frown. James was being nice, really nice, and so far the date had been going well. They had made light conversation on the way to the village in the carriage, and Darley hadn't pressed for any more physical contact yet.

Morgan just wished that she felt shivers with James, or something else like that. He was such a nice guy, definitely better for her than the other man on her mind. She screwed her face up in concentration; maybe she could force the attraction upon herself…

"Leah, what're you doing?"

"Uh…just wondering why you're thanking me for coming. I mean I thought we were a thing, and it would be pretty obvious that if I was going to take anyone it'd be you…"

James' face split into a wide grin, "You have such an odd way of saying things, but I think it's adorable." He gave her hand an extra tug, "Come on, I have a surprise for you."

Morgan humored him, allowing their pace to quicken as they sped past the snow-sprinkled trees. The chilly November air nipped at her face, but it felt pretty good on her healing bruises. It was only when James dragged her to the owl office that she voiced her confusion.

"It's a surprise," he insisted before lumbering through the post doorway. He shook out his coat, doing his best not to cover Morgan in snow. Once he was deemed appropriately dry, he leaned over the wooden counter in the shop and banged on the bell.

While they waited for the owner to assist them, Morgan drifted her eyes around the building. It looked exactly the same as it did in the future: rickety wooden shelves divided into neat squares and stuffed with mail occupied most of the available space. A set of steps in the back corner led to the upper floor of the building, where Morgan knew hundreds of owls were resting.

"I'm looking for a package."

Morgan turned back to James. He was leaning over the counter, speaking very slowly and enunciating his words to the old lady serving him.

"It's a long box, addressed to a Mr. Darley."

The shortened woman shook her head rapidly, efficiently telling James that no, she knew of no such package. James sighed loudly, "It was picked up from a Muggle woman!"

"Oh!" croaked the lady, the wrinkles around her face tightening as she smiled in realization. "_That_ package. The one in the long box, right?"

James rolled his eyes, turning his head so he could give Morgan an exasperated glance. "Yes, that one."

"Well," the lady huffed, "Why didn't you say so in the first place?" She stormed away from him, towards the back rows of wooden shelves. When she returned minutes later, she was handling a long purple box. A black ribbon rested in the middle of it. "There you go, giant."

James grimaced while Morgan broke out in laughter. "Thank you, ma'am," he tucked the package under one arm and pushed Morgan out the door with the other. In the safety of the falling snow and populated streets he grinned. "This is for you."

The box was thrust into Morgan's hands, and she stared at it for a good few seconds. "Me? Huh. Do I open it?"

James shook his head, "Not yet, I want to go to the gazebo."

Since Morgan had no idea where there was a gazebo in Hogsmeade, she let him lead the way again. She was slightly shocked to find it rested in the same spot the Shrieking Shack did in her time.

The gazebo was octagon in its shape, with a high slopping roof and thick wooden floor boards. A bench ran along the inside perimeter of the shack like structure. James pushed her down so she was sitting and then nodded happily.

"Okay, go."

So she did. Her hands darted to the black silk ribbon, peeling it away with finesse. Next, she cautiously lifted the lid of the box and dug through the opaque tissue paper. Inside, she found a gown.

It was a dark blue that shimmered in the sun, completely made out of silk. It had thin straps and gathered tightly around the torso before loosening out into gentle waves of fabric about the waist. It was plain in the sense that it wasn't adorned with any specific patterns or sprinkled with any jewels, but it didn't need to be— the shimmering material was enough to make the dress absolutely eye catching.

"Fucking hell," Morgan breathed, running her hands along the dress. "Holy fucking hell."

"Do you like it?"

She turned her stunned expression to James, "How in the world…James, I don't understand…"

The six-foot Quidditch player smiled gently, running a finger down Morgan's cheek. "My aunt made it. She owns a rather prominent shop in Scotland. I mentioned a few weeks ago that a young lady was winning over my heart, and that I was sure a Christmas party would be coming up—Slughorn is rather predictable like that—so she insisted that she be allowed to make you something. Charlus and Kayden helped me figure out your size and everything," he blushed at some distinct memory.

Morgan let the dress fall back into the box (though the material was so silky it seemed like she was _pouring_ the gown back in) and grabbed James' hands with her own. "It's beautiful," she whispered sincerely, "The most beautiful thing I have ever seen in the whole entire world."

Somewhere inside her head, a voice was screaming at Morgan to deny the gift. It was too nice, too expensive, and it stood for too many things. She didn't love James like that, so leading him on was just mean…cruel even.

But the dress…it was so beautiful.

Maybe she could grow to love James.

She bit her lip when she remembered she had a time limit, not to mention a mission to complete. No, there would be no time for James; there was barely time for her to live.

"Well, a beautiful dress for a beautiful girl," James blushed, reaching over and extracting the extravagant silk ribbon from the packaging. He jumped from his seat, moving so he could straddle Morgan from behind, and gathered her dark hair in his hand. He deftly tied it back with the long piece of cloth. "There. Now, just to make this official, will you let me escort you to professor Slughorn's Christmas party?"

Oh, she wanted to say no. She really did. But she wasn't like Harry or Hermione, who could so easily sacrifice their wants and desires without a second noble thought. No, she came to the conclusion that she was selfish. She would wear the dress, she would kiss James, and she would continue the relationship. It didn't matter that she wouldn't love him, or that she was probably going to die, or even that she was attracted to someone else.

Man, she was really starting to think like Slytherin.

"Of course," she said finally, letting the air out of her cheeks.

James cupped her face in his hands and was just about to lean in to kiss her when a snowball knocked his head back.

"Damn," he hissed, his mouth near her ear, "Kayden and Charlus can never give us a moment alone, can they?"

Morgan heard a gasp come from the entrance of the gazebo, "You're words wound us so," Potter exclaimed. He spied the opened box sitting near Morgan. "But I see thy fair lady hath finally been given-ith her gown-ith."

Kayden appeared by his friends shoulder, "So it seems." He winked at Morgan, "I had a fun time getting your measurements, by the way."

Morgan tossed them a grin, "Go find yourself a girlfriend, you git!"

"Now, now, you would not have the lovely dress if it were not for me!" Kayden said seriously. He waltzed further into the wooden structure to pull Morgan and James to their feet. "Let's go to the Three Broomsticks and grab a butterbeer."

Looking to Morgan for permission, James agreed, "Yeah, sure, let's go." He gently closed the lid on his aunt's gift and offered Morgan his free hand.

The four students trekked through the fast falling snow, reaching the inn in little time and finding an unoccupied table towards the back. The place was just as crowded as Morgan could remember from her time, and the hazy atmosphere was reminiscent of her younger days spent there.

Charlus opted to go get the drinks, and came back to the table with a pack of four girls. He was absolutely ecstatic.

"Move aside, you barmpot," he scolded James, "And let these lovely ladies take a seat."

Morgan observed it was mostly a sea of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff girls, thankfully no Slytherins, but their giggling was annoying regardless. She recognized one of the girls from her potions class, who was quick to drag her into a conversation.

"Melody, remember?" she said in a high voice. Her golden locks sat short and curled on her head. She twirled a strand around her finger, "Your hair looks lovely tied back."

Morgan touched the black ribbon and smiled, "Thanks, uh…" she tried digging through the banks of her mind, looking for a topic of conversation.

Melody sensed her struggle, and patted Morgan's hand with one of her own. "It's okay; I just have a small favor to ask."

Seeing as every other occupant at the table was engrossed in their own conversations, Morgan shrugged, "Sure."

"Could you give this to Tom?" Melody asked, holding out a box. "It's homemade muffins, I just made them yesterday afternoon. Could you give them to him for me, as a Christmas present?"

Morgan pointed out that Christmas was a long way off.

"Oh, I know, but I'll be leaving this week. My parents are pulling me out of school for awhile, because of all the bombings in London. I'm a Muggleborn, you see. I won't be back in time for Christmas, but it will be nice to know that he gets my present, anyways."

Morgan genuinely smiled at that, "That sounds lovely," she tucked the box into her coat, resolving to tell Riddle about the cute Hufflepuff. Maybe she smelled like fruit and flowers, maybe he would be attracted to her.

It occurred to Morgan that she was trying to pair Riddle off with someone so he would be unattainable. If he was, then it would be easier to deny her attraction.

Ignorant of Morgan's thoughts, Melody gave her a heartfelt goodbye, accepting the 'good-luck' shouts she received from the rest of the table.

Rubbing a thoughtful palm around her butterbeer glass, Morgan wondered if she should try making more friends. Her social life was pretty limited to James, Charlus, Kayden, and Violetta. Well, there was Tom, but he was a different story. Melody didn't seem that bad, maybe it was high time Morgan started being nice to more people.

_Or concentrating more on the mission_, a voice said smarmily in her head.

Morgan downed the rest of her drink with a sigh.

---

The sun was setting when Morgan departed from the Three Broomsticks, waving off a concerned James with the assurance that she could make it back to the castle on her own. Seventh year students were given more liberty when it came to curfew, unfortunately that liberty didn't extend to the sixth years.

So with her gift in hand, and Melody's muffins, she grabbed a single carriage and started back. A few younger Ravenclaws shared the ride with her, though she opted to spend it in silence, occasionally twisting the ends of the ribbon in her hair.

When she finally did reach the castle, she speculated over where to store her new dress. She wouldn't dare trust to put it in the dorms. She had a feeling it would have some unexplainable accident should she ever leave it alone.

That really left only one other place.

She headed towards the seventh floor. Tom had told her to stay away from the Room of Requirement, but perhaps he wasn't there yet. And if he was, oh well, it would just be for a quick visit anyway—toss the dress in, hand him his muffins while she was at it, and there. Done. Simple.

Thinking of the baked treats, Morgan pulled one out of its case debated whether or not she should eat it. She had just reasoned that Riddle was probably allergic to anything as girly and good as muffins when she reached the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy. Popping one of the treats in her mouth (they were chocolate, her absolute favorite), she began pacing back and forth.

'_I need a place to rest.'_

Morgan paced the wall opposite of the troll picture three times, frowning in confusion when a door didn't appear. So Tom was already in there. Okay. Whatever.

'_I need Tom Riddle.'_

Upon pacing past the wall three more times, a door appeared. She transferred the boxes she was carrying into one hand (not before stuffing another muffin in her mouth), and pushed the door open.

It was hot and a bit smoky—from what Morgan could tell, Tom must've been brewing a potion. He had altered the room to suit his purpose, and instead of the customary couches she was used to seeing, a large practical work area filled the room's space. She spied three doorways, though, so she figured there had to be a bed in one of them.

She was just taking the next few steps over the threshold when Tom appeared in front of her.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed.

Morgan's lips parted in surprise. He looked angry, angrier than she'd ever seen him. His eyes were narrowed and burning, his lips pursed together tightly, and his jaw clenched. She barely had time to try and explain when his hand shot forward and yanked the front of her shirt. He dragged her through the front room, barely giving her time to look around anymore, before shoving her through one of the other doors.

It was a bedroom. A large bed adorned with dark green sheets sat in the middle of the room and a big set of chest drawers sat against one of the walls. Morgan blinked, registering the fact that Tom was pacing in front of her.

"I asked you one thing, to stay out of this bloody room for a day, and what do you do?" His voice was clipped and controlled, but the fury was there.

"Did you really think I would listen?"

She yelped when he suddenly drew his wand and let loose a jet of blue light. Recent years of experience in Dumbledore's Army had her ducking and diving to the right, recovering with her own wand pulled out and ready.

"Are you kidding me?" She snapped, "Cool down for a second."

Tom shot another spell at her.

"God damn it." She jumped forward, tackling the future Dark Lord to the ground and trying to steal his wand away from him. She knew if he had continued shooting spells at her she wouldn't have been able to dodge them for much longer.

Fighting for control on the carpeted floor, Morgan wondered why Tom didn't just hex her off with a bit of wandless magic. But whatever the reason, their Muggle fight continued.

She tried to pin his hands over his head, but he shook free of her grip and elbowed her in the stomach. Thanks to the recently eaten muffins, she doubled over; giving Tom all the time he needed to slide away from her.

He hopped to his feet lithely, as if he hadn't just had a smack-down wrestling match with a girl from the future, and dragged Morgan to her feet by her robes.

"You are insufferable." He hissed, backing her into the wall and holding her there roughly. He paused suddenly, "And your hair's up."

Morgan winced, a strange fuzzy feeling bubbling up in her stomach. At least Tom's tone was more indifferent than angry now. "Yeah, my hair's up," she growled. "You know why? Because the only fucking reason why I came here was to drop off a lovely present that had been decorated with the ribbon in my hair. I wasn't here to spy on any of your secret evil plans."

Tom's eyes glanced back to the discarded boxes, noticing a small slip of blue silk on the floor. He saw the muffins spilled on the ground too.

Morgan followed his gaze, the fuzzy feeling in her stomach practically fizzing now, "Oh yeah, and to give you those muffins. This girl named Melody asked me to give them to you. She's in our Potions class. She has the prettiest golden hair; it cascades down her back like a waterfall. Oh, and her _eyes_!" Morgan squealed, "They're just the most adorable shade of green I have ever seen."

She sighed, "I could get lost in those eyes. And her voice! It's like honey; I think I love her Tom! I really do!"

Tom Riddle released Morgan, rubbing his temples with one hand. "This girl asked you to give _me_ the muffins?"

"Tom!" Morgan gasped, scandalized, "_Her name is Melody!_ My sweet, sweet Melody."

"Leah, did you eat a muffin?"

"Of course! I had three, because my sweet Melody is a whizz at baking. Oh how I adore her. Do you think she'll come back soon? Do you'll think she'll mind that I'm from—"

She froze, regaining herself for a moment, and clapped a hand over her mouth. She had just been about to say 'from the future'. Thankfully, Tom didn't notice.

"What the fuck is wrong with me?" She bit out worriedly.

"Leah," Tom's lips were still pursed together, but this time with the effort of trying to control his laughter. "I do believe this girl spiked the muffins with some brewed _Amortentia_."

In her mind, Morgan was screaming with uncontrollable anger and shock. But for some reason, her favorite curse words didn't come out of her mouth. Instead, she yelled, "Her name is _Melody_, Tom, my Melody!"


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**A/N: **Oh yes, it has been awhile my friends. Sorry :( Anyways I hope this chapter makes up for it. Life has been busy for me. How y'all doin'? Heh. ONWARDS! Okay, so I would like to thank **Welcome To My Mad World** who, dear lord, actually reviewed every chapter. I was quite touched! I would also like to thank **ZeroHope2Survive** who PM'd me to make sure I wasn't dead, and who has also pointed out typos in this chapter. I'll try to fix em up later, but unfortunately I don't have a beta, so sometimes I miss those things. Thanks again, yo, even though I told you that this chapter would be out last Sunday, lol. Also thanks to anyone else that reviewed/fave'd/alert'd you guys are the best fo shoo.

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen: Troublesome**

A look of slight horror crossed Leah's face before her features morphed into a look of longing. "Her name is Melody, Tom, my Melody!"

Well, that was that. He'd lost her. The girl had been foolish enough to eat something that was very obviously meant for him and now she was drugged. Tom might have had the ability to enjoy the situation, if only his anger wasn't still burning under the surface.

What in the world did she think she was going to accomplish by deliberately ignoring his request? The potion brewing in the other room still needed to sit for a few hours, and though he knew that Leah was a number of things, he wasn't stupid enough to deny the fact that she was smart. All it would take is one whiff, and she would most likely be able to identify the concoction he was making.

And that, that was just unacceptable.

Which meant that for the time being she was stuck in this room. He didn't trust Leah to keep her hands to herself when she was sober, so he most certainly didn't trust her under the influence of the _Amortentia_.

He had been very curious about love potions when he was younger. They had such a strange power over people: the ability to make them obsess completely over another individual. Obsession tended to push people over the edge, and that was something he found intriguing indeed.

Leah would probably tear the room apart if he left her alone long enough. Nothing would stop her from trying to find this Melody person.

How very troublesome.

Tom Riddle sighed and kicked one of the muffins littered on the ground. It wasn't the first time a female had tried to poison him, and it wouldn't be the last, but whoever Melody was, he had to appreciate her sense. He never accepted gifts from admiring classmates anymore, and obviously the girl knew this and had adapted accordingly. She had chosen a messenger he was tolerant of and recruited her to do a delivery.

That only put Melody a small margin above the rest of her classmates though, because she was still dumb enough to assume that he didn't check the gifts he received, even if they were from "friends."

Friends. What a joke. He certainly didn't have any. There was no need. They were a weakness at best, and should only be used as a means to an end.

_What about Leah?_

Tom waved his wand irritably, banishing the poisoned treats from sight and refusing to acknowledge the voice in his head, even though it subconsciously turned his attention to the subject of his thoughts.

She was watching him with her ridiculously wide blue eyes. All the while, one small hand played with the end of the ribbon in her hair. Her dark locks were bunched up in a knot, the strands barely ghosting against the back of her neck. Pink lips were quirked expectantly, and she titled her head to the side.

He realized she had been speaking to him.

"—I need to find her. I miss her so much, it's like someone is literally squishing my heart in their grip. Will you help me, Tom?"

He leaned against the bedpost with a particularly blank expression, and though he didn't realize it, his wand twirled between his fingers.

Leah was undoubtedly an interesting topic. She had been a point of speculation for him ever since she showed up and started spouting her ridiculous lies. She appeared to harbor a mass of information not only on him, but on other things relative to the noble house of Slytherin.

It was something that made little sense, considering she seemed to hold her house in such low regard. And things only got more confusing from there on out—especially when those things concerned her past.

Her dark mark was of particular interest to him, for it bound her to him fully. Yes, she was still an individual capable of her own decisions, but she could be highly influenced with just one touch. It was more than he could ever ask for, really, since the control was such a rush.

Not that he would ever admit that to her. Besides, he suspected that she already knew as much.

He had stopped trying to peel back the layers of her lies a little while ago, realizing that the more he tried to make sense of things, the more irritated he got. He was a person that just _needed_ to know, no matter what. He loved picking people apart piece by piece, and Leah was just so damn untouchable. Sometimes his confusion and frustration became so overwhelming that it took a lot of willpower to stop from bashing his head against a nearby wall.

It was so much easier to take her lies in stride. Doing so allowed him to focus on the other aspects of herself that she couldn't hide, no matter what she did. He was able to observe how conniving she was, not to mention resilient. Her wit was a force to be reckoned with, and when she was flustered the most curious red tinge would coat her cheeks before her features were distorted in anger. She was most certainly prideful, and rather than take defeat and admit her wrongdoings, she took the offensive and attacked her opponents head on.

Then there were the times when he would catch a look of profound sadness in her eyes—moments where she would stop whatever she was doing just to stare at her hands, looking at them like she had never seen them before. Her eyes would flutter shut— her chest heaving with a breath that threatened to explode from her body— before they would face the world again with a spark unique in its intensity, but not in its determination.

To combat these few moments striking maturity were long hours of pure childishness, an innocence that radiated from her like the sun.

How could someone so exposed to the horrors of life still have that?

These truths about the girl twirling the ribbon in her fingers left him with a grudging respect and a strange desire.

If Leah was all of those things—passionate, slightly crazy, and powerful—what would her loyalty look like? God, he wanted to know. The desire to have her look at him with admiration and trust was quite demanding.

Such thoughts led him to conclude that somewhere along the way—without his consent or knowledge— Leah had become important to him. Having endearing feelings for another person was a weakness though, and that was unacceptable.

But Tom was never a person to be refused of what he wanted, so weakness or not he would keep the girl around for longer, until he got what he needed from her. Then, well, then was a far way off, and he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

"—ey! Hey! Are you listening to me Mr. Tall Dark and Broody? We need to skedaddle, we got to find Melody now so I can go profess my love for her. I'm thinking I could make a haiku. Something like, 'Oh how my love for thou—"

"Leah, shut up."

"How rude, you better not speak to Melody like that when we find her." Leah looked slightly put-off as she shifted from foot to foot. Wrinkles of anxiety developed on her forehead when she noticed just how uncaring he appeared. "…Riddle?"

What was with the last name formality? Tom wondered with a slight hint of exasperation. You didn't formally address people you trusted, and the fact that she used such a tone with him was only proof of how far off his goal was.

"I'm not taking you to see Melody."

The gasp of horror that left her throat was truly comedic. He watched with amusement as her mind tried to wrap around a single fact that seemed more terrible under the influence of a love potion.

"I'm not…going…to see Melody?" Blue eyes narrowed dangerously.

"No," Tom confirmed, already turning away from the girl to pick up a long since discarded box from the floor. He tossed it on the bed, peeling back its cover to observe the contents. It was a dress, dark blue in color and stunningly soft in texture. The material of the gown drifted through his fingers to pool in the center of his palm.

It would have been expensive, so Leah wasn't lying earlier when she said it was a gift. Probably from that Gryffindor she as involved with.

His lips pursed. Gryffindors were annoying enough when they weren't weaseling their way into his affairs. Well, at least he wouldn't have to acquire Leah a dress for the Christmas ball. The only question was if the dress fit her, which probably wasn't likely considering the fact that the material seemed to have an awful lot of room for feminine curves.

The thought of Leah with such attributes was laughable. She was far too small.

"I didn't want things to come to this, Tom, but I'm afraid I have to do it. You can be comforted by the thought that it was in the name of love, and nothing less spectacular."

What _now_?

He turned his dark gaze upon Leah to find she stood in an offensive position, with her feet squared and her wand in one hand. In the other was…a pillow?

Leah waved her makeshift shield, "Prepare for defeat, Slytherin Heir!"

Okay, this was just getting out of hand.

Tom rolled his eyes, "_Expelliarmus_."

It took a moment for Leah to realize that _no_, she wasn't in possession of her wand anymore and that _yes_, Tom Riddle looked slightly more pissed off than usual, by which point she was already chucking her pillow at him and diving for the door.

Silly, foolish, and undoubtedly rash, but amusing nonetheless, and just the slightest bit adorable. Tom almost regretted darting his hand out and curling it around her wrist, bringing her escape to a premature end.

Leah let out a squeak that sounded quite natural coming from a girl so small before Tom shoved down on her dark mark, sending enough pain through her system to cause her to slump against him unconscious.

He shifted her weight, slipping her onto the bed with a quick and sufficient movement. She wouldn't be a problem for awhile now—he figured he could even whip up a swift antidote in time to administer it to her while she was knocked out. That option was infinitely more attractive then forcing it down her throat when she was kicking and screaming.

Tom sighed and straightened, taking a minute to examine Leah's wand in his hand. It was of medium height, and flexible. He wasn't able to determine its exact contents at the moment (for there were certainly more important things to be doing), but he filed away the information for further use.

Throwing one last dubious glance to his captive, Tom Riddle disappeared through the door to find the cure for love.

---

It felt like she had been hit by a truck.

No, actually, that was putting it too lightly—it felt like someone had literally ran her over with a steamroller and then decided to do a nice little tap dance on her head. But if her poor head was in pain, then her stomach was in _agony_.

Okay, maybe agony was a slight exaggeration for the prickling feeling spreading through her torso, but _damn it_ she couldn't remember anything for the life of her and this was just _strange_! She was allowed to baby herself just a little.

At least she was on a bed and not the floor. That would have been uncomfortable. And oh my, how delicious her pillow smelled. It stirred a half-forgotten memory filled with bright colors, cauldrons, and a dreadful feeling that almost out-shined the monstrous life forms whipping a tennis ball against the confines of her mind.

Morgan prepped herself well, because by now she was more than familiar with situations where shit really hit the fan, so when the thought came she didn't flinch—no seriously. Because, as she tried to reason with herself, there were hundreds of worse things in the world than her pillow smelling like her _Amortentia_ potion, honestly.

She was totally not groaning in despair. Nope, she was just exercising her lung capacity. Perfectly normal.

"I see someone's finally awake."

Hi, god, yeah it's Morgan, no I'm fine really; just wondering who the hell spat in your Cheerios and turned you into such a vindictive bitch.

Bashing her brains in with hammer was starting to appear awfully attractive—it would finally shut up the tennis players in her head, at least.

"Why are you still here," she snarled into the pillow, which probably wasn't the best thing to do in hindsight, because then her mouth was filled with bedding.

"It is my room," Tom Riddle said quite nonchalantly.

And if those words didn't get her tumble out of bed, none would, really.

"Ouch."

"Don't you think you're being melodramatic?"

No, she thought she was being rational. Because if she was in Tom Riddle's room that meant she was in his bed, and that meant, of course, that it was _his_ pillow that smelled like—

Oh no. Time to put her selective memory to good use. Morgan would quite calmly pretend to have never thought those traitorous thoughts.

She buried her head deeper in the collection of sheets she had stripped from the bed during her flight. Maybe she could curl up and die here. No more mission, no more attractive Tom Riddle, no more getting jabbed in the stomach with said attractive boy's elbow…

Morgan shot out of the sheets, her memories providing her with the energy she wouldn't have normally had. "You," she said darkly, wagging a finger in Tom's direction. "You…you tried to _hex_ me! Damn it! And you _elbowed_ me in the stomach, you fiend!"

Tom, though Morgan couldn't have known, was rather tired and irritated. He sat in a conjured armchair, his head lolling back towards the ceiling as he tried very hard not to knock his companion unconscious again. Though he found her endearing at times, she could also be a nuisance.

"You came to the Room of Requirement after I specifically asked you not to. I was angry, I acted accordingly."

Okay, maybe she could write off the bruise on her ribs—she did break his nose after all—but what she wasn't going to write off were the rest of the aches her body was suffering from.

"Why does it feel like someone's run me over with a particularly large party bus?" Morgan wiggled her feet out from under the blankets and decided, with flourish, that she was going to get comfortable. Thus, she kicked off her shoes with a content sigh.

"You were poisoned with a love potion," Tom replied, "And I had to knock you unconscious to grant me the time needed to brew you a cure and then to administer you the cure."

Morgan blinked. That threw her for a loop. Tom being thoughtful? Well, his version of thoughtful at least. She decided to appreciate the novelty of the situation.

"Oh. Thanks."

The very obscure grunt she received in response was quite unrevealing. But she liked to imagine that it stood for something like, 'oh, it was my pleasure to help such a charming young lady such as yourself.'

She scrunched her forehead up in thought, remembering the exact circumstances of her duel-turned-Muggle-brawl with Riddle. "So," she said, having finally come up with a sufficient rendering of the events in her mind, "What are you brewing that's so hush-hush anyways?"

"Nothing to worry your little head about."

He didn't even have the decency to say 'pretty' little head. And she definitely did not like the insinuation that she was unintelligent enough to handle the truth. After she told him this, he huffed at her, apparently deciding she wasn't even worth the amount of effort it was required to properly grunt anymore.

It was at this point that she was forced to acknowledge the fact that Tom looked ready to pass out from bone-deep exhaustion.

"You look like you could use a nap."

Tom sent a very suffering glare towards the area he believed her head to be. Gross understatements did not make for a happy psycho heir. Morgan filed this information away for future usage.

She sighed, "You could, you know, take the bed if you wanted."

The only warning she got was a very slight whipping sound, and the next thing she knew the sheets were ripped from her body and settling themselves neatly on the mattress. Tom was already there, collapsing against them with a content sigh.

Very rude. But she wasn't about to instruct Tom on the finer points of being polite. So instead she stood up very steadily and reached for her shoes. "Right, well I'll just be going."

It was the sound of the door locking that ended her perusal of her ever-so evasive left shoe.

Tom was leaning against the headboard of the bed, one leg stiffly drawn up to his side, and a book perched on his lap.

"Stay. Here."

A tone like that really offered no argument, so Morgan plopped right back down on the bed, making sure to kick one of Tom's legs out of the way.

Whatever he was making out there, he really didn't want her to see it, which only made her more curious and suspicious, bringing forth a few guilty thoughts about her mission and how _not_ well she was getting it done.

Tom fell into one of his typical 'up-to-no-good-world-domination' silences, or perhaps he was just reading, but no matter what the case, Morgan was left staring at the sheets rather bored.

Her companion seemed happy enough to let her suffer, so imagine her shock when he was the first one to break the silence.

"That is a nice dress." He nudged it with his foot.

Morgan let out a sound of surprise when she noticed the box with the slip of blue fabric melting out of it. What a terrible person she was to bestow gifts upon. Not hours after receiving the thoughtful dress and here she was tossing it to the side like it was nothing.

"Yeah," she admitted guiltily. "It is. James' aunt made it for me, thoughtful bloke he is."

"I don't think it's common for people to call their lovers 'blokes'."

Tom couldn't help but feeling a little bit smug when he heard the sound of Morgan choking on a mixture of spit and air, "L-lovers? Like hell!"

That probably wasn't a nice thing to say about her sort-of boyfriend. From the way Tom quirked his eyebrow at her over his book, he thought so too. "What?" she defended herself valiantly, "I'm not having sex with him! I mean, yes, of course I kiss him but it's nothing like that. I don't want it to be like that."

How true her words were. Anything more than her PG-13 exchanges with James would lead to a festering of emotions that weren't welcome to a person who was undergoing a slow death.

"You don't love him." Tom said.

"No," Morgan admitted, "But I could, in time."

Teensy problem there—she didn't have time. Each second brought her closer to her inevitable death, or if she could help it, the return journey back to her own time. It really wasn't fair for James to think otherwise, and if she had a lick of sense she'd end the thing right now, but sometimes she just needed to be held and loved.

Oh man. Was she selfish or what? Nothing at all like the self-sacrificing hero she was _supposed_ to be. Where were the big-screen superheroes when you needed them? Maybe she should check under the bed.

"I don't think so," Tom disagreed, "Love makes people weak and though you are a lot of things, Leah, you are not weak."

That cynical spiel was really going to grate on her nerves. But more than anything it left her with a great sense of pity for the fucker who thought that something as powerful as love made people weak. If only he could see that love was the only keeping her grounded on the bed next to him, maybe then she could make him eat his words.

"You should end your…fling with him," Tom continued. "It's only going to end with him getting hurt. Especially if he ever finds out you're attracted to another man."

Oh she was two seconds away from gouging that self-satisfied smirk off his features. Bastard, it was her hormones, damn it, she had no control over it.

Perhaps if she kept repeating that thought over and over again, she would be more inclined to believe it. Maybe she could develop her selective memory into selective thinking.

"So Tom, what was it that you were saying about my dress?" which was really code for, 'utter-another-word-and-I'll-castrate-you-with-a-spork'. Tom probably recognized the threat, but like her, knew she was incapable of following through with it.

Selective thinking, she reminded herself. In her mind castrating the future dark lord was just in a days work.

"It doesn't look like it would fit you," he said offhandedly. His hands flipped through his book relentlessly, though Morgan was pretty sure he was doing it just to keep his hands busy. He was always messing with something.

The thought of the beautiful blue dress not fitting distressed her a bit. "What? What do you mean?"

"You're a tiny girl, Leah, that dress would swamp you."

Morgan woefully picked up the gown, stepping off the bed and holding the material up against her chest. Now that she was able to inspect it thoroughly, it did seem a bit wide…

"Damn," she swore, "You're bloody well right. Do you know anyone who would possibly be able to fix it?"

She realized just how ridiculous the question was before she asked it. It wasn't like Tom had a black book filled with the numbers of tailor wizards. The idea of Tom going into a store for a robe fitting almost elicited a giggle from her.

From the way Tom snapped his book shut with a defiant flipping of his wrist, she figured he thought the question was stupid too. Although, apparently it was for a different reason, "Leah, do you not realize who you're in the same room with."

Oh. Of course, how could she be so dumb? If Tom could quite happily make someone's brains bleed from their ears, surely tailoring spells were within the limit of his skills.

The thing was, tailoring her dress would be…helping her. The word felt foreign in her mind when associated with the Slytherin heir. He was being awfully nice all of a sudden.

She narrowed her eyes warily, "…You want to help me?" She received an agitated sigh in response.

"Leah, contrary to your popular belief, I'm not a totally…unsavory person. Of course I'll help you."

"It's not that you're unsavory," Morgan defended her opinion of him, "It's that you're too much like a Slytherin. You only ever do something unless there's something in it for you."

"I'm just trying to help a…friend, if you don't want my help, then fine." He went to pick up his book again.

Friend?

Morgan took a quick look around the room to make sure that the world wasn't ending in a blaze of fiery pain. She also patted her stomach, just to check that she was still alive.

Okay, so she was still alive and the world wasn't ending. Now she just wished she had a video camera or something to capture that monumental moment.

She had never really been looking for Tom's friendship…in fact, the only thing that she ever set out to do was infuriate him. But apparently, shallow half-plans coupled with inexperience led to unexpected things happening.

Morgan was pretty much terrible at getting her mission done. She barely skimmed through the file of information she'd been given and rushed into things headfirst. She gave Tom a reason to suspect her from day one, and revealed to him that he could virtually count on one hand the number of times she has told him the truth.

And it seemed all that earned her his friendship.

Tom was right; she really was the best worst spy ever.

Go figure.

Of course there was always the option that Tom was just trying to placate her, getting her to try on the dress before he setting her on fire.

That would be totally uncool.

She realized she had been staring at the dress for an unnaturally long time, and that Tom was sending her a questioning glance. "Sorry," she apologized for her blank look, "Just trying to wrap my mind around this."

A dark scowl crossed Tom's face, which made her think he was beginning to regret ever saying the word friend without attaching things like, 'weakness, unnecessary, and great people to torture' in the same sentence.

Morgan decided she didn't like that scowl—it was filled with too much vulnerability, as if Tom was embarrassed. Something about that wasn't sitting right with her, so she went to rectify the situation.

"I mean, who'd ever figure I'd get a real friend. My name is usually synonymous with 'pain in the ass' or 'idiot'."

"This is true," Tom agreed, his dark look merging into one of amusement.

Okay, yeah, no need to agree with her on that one. He could have said something nice, like, 'I think you're a wonderful person'. Though, Morgan realized, the world probably _would_ have ended if that had happened.

"Right…" Morgan hitched the dress over her shoulder. "Where can I change?"

Tom pointed to a small door she hadn't noticed earlier, hanging near the front of the room. "That leads to the bathroom."

"Fantastic," Morgan darted to the door, slipping inside and clicking it shut in one movement. Easing herself into the small bathroom, she observed her reflection and saw that the silk ribbon tying up her hair had become mussed while she was unconscious. Sighing, she finished untying it and wrapped it around her wrist.

Stripping down only took a few moments, though she paused to study the scars on her stomach and chest. With a weary look, she ran her hands over the bumpy skin, a sense of nostalgia building within her. The scars reminded her of all the people she left behind in the future.

She couldn't wait to see them again.

But would they accept her? The last time she saw her friends they were pretty much resigned to treating her like dirt. It was what she deserved though, she thought as she rubbed the Dark Mark branded on her arm.

She could only just imagine the looks on their faces if they knew she was getting chummy with Tom Riddle. Harry Potter would probably have an aneurysm and give her a lecture filled with hero ANGST.

Notice the capital letters, because there was angst, and then there was ANGST.

Harry was particularly good at the latter, if she remembered correctly.

Not that she would blame him. Hell, if this had been happening to someone else, she would have grabbed them around the neck, given them a noogie of death, and then probably put them through a blender.

There was something not right about canoodling with the enemy and having sexually inclined thoughts about them.

But Morgan had to acknowledge the fact that she just _wasn't_ normal. She was…well…partially insane for one, and a whole bunch of other unpleasant things. She had to stop trying to justify her interactions with Tom. She would drive herself even crazier.

She was attracted to him. A small part of her enjoyed his company. That was that. It's not like anyone would ever find out anyways. After this whole mission was over and done with she could go back to her time and pretend nothing out of the ordinary happened.

She'd probably make up all kinds of lies about how much they hated each other. And it's not like she'd have a hard time hating him in her own time.

She wasn't about to jump Tom's bones when he looked like the offspring of a python and an ugly corpse.

Satisfied, Morgan pulled on the dress and dreadfully acknowledged the fact that Tom was right—it was much too large.

Not being able to reach the buttons on the back of the dress, Morgan hugged the material to her shoulders and stepped out of the bathroom.

Tom was standing by the end of the bed, running a hand through his hair whilst tapping his wand against the bedpost. When he noticed her, he gave her a very slight nod.

"Erm, button me up?"

A small grin worked its way onto Tom's features before he approached her, signaling for her to turn around with a swift motion of his fingers. Morgan complied, holding her breath as she waited for him to utter some spell to do the backing of the dress up in zero seconds flat. She prepared herself for some possible fabric whiplash.

She nearly coughed in surprise when she felt determined fingers flitting across her lower back. "W-what are you doing!?"

"Buttoning the dress up," Tom replied back, a feigned innocence making his words sounds sickly sweet. His fingers fumbled with a button somewhere in the middle of her back, and they brushed more frequently against her skin.

Morgan was pretty sure she was shivering, and it wasn't from the cold. Oh wait…maybe it was. She spied the Goosebumps settling on her arms

"Why didn't you use your wand?" she asked warily.

"Wasn't it you who said you appreciate things more if you do them yourself?"

Oh, good point. Boy did she regret those words now. "Can't you go a little faster," she all but hissed.

"I'm awfully tired; you've had me doing a lot of work today. First I had to make you an antidote and now this. You owe me a lot." Tom's fingers deftly closed the last clasp, and Morgan realized he was a lot closer than she had previously thought.

"Friends don't owe friends," Morgan argued, because she did not like the thought of owing Tom anything. "They do things for each other because they're super nice and not manipulative."

Tom laughed, and she felt the vibration rumbling from his chest. "Maybe you're right," he said, and his breath tickled the hollow of her right ear. "I don't know, I have a lot to learn about friendship."

"Erm," Morgan fought against the blush threatening to spread across her cheeks, "I guess I could teach you."

"I guess you'll have to," he sighed, and if he was any other guy Morgan would have thought the words sounded playful. But he was Tom Riddle, and he didn't do playfulness, even if he apparently did friendship.

Morgan hadn't realized she was tense until she felt Tom shift her hair away from her neck and nip at her earlobe. "Relax."

The fuck!?

She wanted to swear at him, to tell him off for putting her in this very compromising position, and then possibly kick his face in. And she did, in not so many words.

"Eeep!"

What was that!? An inner voice of reason demanded inside her head. That's not even an expletive, damn it!

She jumped, wondering for a split second how she could be terrified of a voice inside her head, and then worried that she was going insane again.

Tom was laughing, and he might have been saying something about how flustered she was, before his hands slipped under her arms and settled on the slopping decline of her hip bone.

"Eh…"

Okay, her inner voice said, at least that was an actual discernible sound. Now try for something more intimidating and scary, or at least something in English.

Morgan tried pulling away from Tom, putting her uncomfortable thoughts to good use. She didn't want to be quite so near him right now. "Okay," she managed to say in a voice that was totally cool and unruffled. "I think I'll go look for that tailoring wizard now," she tittered uneasily and tried stepping forward.

Tom's hands tightened on her waist, "No," he said with a hint of exasperation. "Stay still."

"What? Get out of your sight? Oh I can do that," Morgan pulled more insistently against his hands. She froze when she felt a thumb stroking her Dark Mark. Her skin prickled uncomfortably, forcing Tom's annoyance upon her. There was something else in the touch too that she wasn't quite sure she understood.

"Stop." His voice was a lot colder now, more authoritative. "Be good."

Ugh, such condescending words shouldn't sound so attractive.

"I'm just going to tailor the dress, make it fit better," he tried to ease her worry by removing his hand from her Dark Mark and rubbing it over her shoulders.

"Okay," Morgan said, because his previous tone scared her, leaving her with the expectation that should she face him, she would meet red eyes instead of dark ones. "No more sexual harassment though."

He laughed once more, leaving Morgan with the thought that tonight had been the most amount times he had done so. Then she couldn't think anymore, because his hands were all over her.

They smoothed over her torso slowly and sensually, all the while he whispered words in her ear that sounded almost intimate. It was a spell, though, so she couldn't pick apart what the words meant.

Around her body the fabric of the dress tightened, and she almost blacked out when his hands smoothed over her breasts. Totally not cool.

"It seems someone was expecting a little too much," he mused into her ear, indicating to how loose the fabric around her chest had been.

What a low blow. Where was a ref when you needed one?

"Low blow, Riddle," she said a little breathlessly as she tried pulling away from him again. "Now kindly unhand me."

"Relax," he said, enunciating the word more clearly now. Her body rose and fell with each breath that he took while one of his hands unwound the ribbon around her wrist. He gathered her hair and tied it up with the silk, letting his hand rest on her neck a second longer than necessary. When this was done, he did release her, walking around her slowly.

He eyed her with his head propped up against one fist. "Good," he said. "Go look."

So Morgan did, just wanting to get away from his confusing stares that made her feel weightier than usual. When she finally got back to the bathroom she felt like he had burned a million holes into her back.

At least the dress made her look good. It highlighted the small curves she did have, and with her pixie features and pale skin she resembled a porcelain doll, which was a nice ego-booster after the terribly small size of her breasts had been slapped in her face.

She sighed and touched the ribbon in her hair, twisting its ends as she thought. What was with Tom nipping her ear? That was totally out of character for him, unless he was exploiting her attraction to him.

He's a guy, that awfully familiar voice in her head said, of course he was getting touchy feely with you. It was like a free feel-up.

Morgan didn't appreciate that. It made her feel dirty. She already had James, even though she shouldn't, and Tom's sudden resolve to make her want to do stupid things like kiss him was annoying.

Right. Well, they may be friends, but that didn't mean she couldn't slap him around a bit. Slipping off the dress, Morgan wondered exactly how she should approach the situation. By the time she was sliding her skirt over her small hips, she wasn't any closer to the answer. Oh well, she'd wing it. She seemed to be pretty good at that lately.

"Riddle," she said, inserting steel into her voice when she walked out of the bathroom, "Stop being ridiculously charming and attractive and sneaky. What do you want?"

Okay, so the words charming and attractive could have been left out. But more or less, she was fairly convinced she got her point across. He wasn't fooling her. No matter what he thought.

He looked like he was about to protest when she cut him off again. "We're friends, right? So stop treating me like a child or someone beneath you. And don't you dare say that you have no idea what I'm talking about."

Tom sighed, "I'm still learning, remember," he said with some form of bitter humor. "I've never been on equal footing with someone before"

"That doesn't mean you can't keep your hands to yourself," Morgan growled, stalking forward to poke him in the chest.

Tom grabbed her finger and tilted his head to the side, "Maybe I don't want to," he said finally.

Morgan had always known that Voldemort was insane, but the first thing she had done after coming to the past was admit that _Tom Riddle_ wasn't. He was sane and clever. A bad combination for someone hell bent on world domination. But now he was spewing nonsense.

"Tom," she said seriously and lowly, "You are being ridiculously charming and attractive again, stop it." He probably didn't need her to inflate his head anymore, but oh well. It was the truth.

"Hmm," Tom hummed, and Morgan wasn't sure if he was agreeing with her or disagreeing. But then it didn't matter, because he leaned down to kiss her.

It was different from their first kiss. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Undeniably soft, his lips sought purchase against her own, his hand coming forward to cup her cheek. She sighed through it, keeping her hands bunched down at her sides because this was just so _wrong_!

Sensing her lack of response, Tom pulled her tighter against him, his other hand joining his first in holding her face. His lips pressed to hers with more force, and he bit her gently. Morgan was scared he was going to force her to recuperate by touching her Dark Mark, but he didn't.

She blinked in surprise when his lips left hers to lay soft and unsure kisses along her jawbone and down to her neck. His lips dusted along her skin, burning a path down to the area where the collar of her shirt met skin. His arms constricted around her waist, eliminating any space between them.

Morgan couldn't quite bring herself to push him away—because she really didn't want to—but she couldn't draw her arms around him either. Instead she dropped her head on his shoulder, wishing the fabric underneath it would cool her flaming skin.

After a few moments his assault on her neck stopped, and he sighed heavily. "You're impossible," he said in another moment of vulnerability. His frustration was quite evident in his tone, and it looked like he wanted to bury himself in her neck and hide forever.

He'd probably never been rejected by a girl.

She felt a little bad. So in a moment of compassion she let her hand dart up to pat him on the head.

What? She never claimed to be good at comforting.

She heard him give a bitter laugh, and she woefully returned her hand to her side.

"Tom," she said softly, "You're being unfair."

He bit down on her neck sharply, and then he was backing her into the wall. Her fear spiked, because now he was angry, and she wasn't sure what she could do.

Tom didn't speak until her back hit the wallpaper. "Unfair?" he hissed, and his tone was deep and angry. Dark eyes smoldered, tinted red.

Morgan refused to be intimidated, so she tried to rip away the arms still tight around her waist. Her chin raised defiantly, "Stop it," she commanded.

"Why," he hissed, "Are you afraid? Afraid of the monster that killed a Mudblood and his own father and grandparents?"

"No," Morgan lied, grabbing the front of his robes and getting in his face, "I'm annoyed with him. You know why? Because he's not making any sense. You told me you wanted nothing to do with me, not in that way."

"Things change," he said coldly.

"I don't understand you."

"You don't understand _anything_," he snapped, and his hands wrapped around hers. His grip was painful. "And I don't understand you. I should kill you," he whispered, "End this right now."

Morgan's heart was thudding loudly through her chest—its pace increased as her fight or flight instincts kicked in. A small part of her refused to back down, though, "Is that what you do Tom? Kill something when things aren't going your way? Fine, kill me right now." She squared her shoulders and ripped her hands away from his. Steadily, she began to unbutton the first few buttons of her shirt, until her collarbone was exposed. She grabbed Tom's hand, guiding it until it rested on her fast beating heart.

His thumb smoothed over the scarred skin present there, "You're a liar," he said softly, "You're terrified." His whole palm covered her heart.

Morgan met his gaze then, and wondered how the hell things had gone downhill so fast. "I'm not running," she said then. "I'm not fighting. You know the funny thing? I hate fighting, _despise_ it, actually. But it seems that's all I'm doing nowadays." Her voice lowered, "Fight, fight, fight." With her free hand she gripped his shirt again, bringing him to her eyelevel. "So do it."

Tom's breath fanned across her face, cool and fresh. A hand brushed stray hair over her shoulder. He appeared to be quite calm when he laid a kiss on her forehead. "No," he said simply, "I take good care of what is mine."

Her first thought was that he had her fooled, because he looked ready to kill her then. Her second one was that, nope, last time she checked she wasn't some sort of plushie to be thought of as a possession. And her third one was rather unwelcome: she wanted him to take good care of her, because damn it, no one else had ever done so.

Her next words left her mouth completely unchecked, "Good, I'll hold you to that." His eyes widened slightly in marginal surprise, "But don't ever touch me, not like that, not again. I'm trusting you."

And really, what more could he ask for?

---

It seemed that Tom went to great lengths to avoid Morgan after that. Not that she really noticed, because she was doing the same thing. It wasn't until Violetta, who was rather keen with her observation skills, pointed it out to her that she realized the situation.

"You and Tom Riddle are avoiding each other," she had said blandly, leaning over to add a tree root to their potion. "He barely even looks at you anymore. Though you are much more obvious in your methods—I think I even saw you hide in a closet to avoid him."

Morgan had scowled, but was rather relieved that she no longer had to go to such lengths as diving into a pile of brooms to dodge him, since he was obviously not too excited to see her either.

One would think that when two people mutually agreed to not see each other that their interactions would be few and far between. Unfortunately, because god really did hate Morgan, that was not the case.

It seemed almost every other morning she was bumping into him, glancing him over with an uncertain stare before mumbling a muted good morning or good afternoon. Tom was much more vocal and at ease, since he had a lot of practice speaking with people he wasn't happy to see.

Morgan found herself locked out of the Room of Requirement for a week and a half after the incident, and she could only assume that Tom was still brewing his potion. That week was one spent miserably in her dorm, pretending not to hear Lucretia's scalding remarks.

All in all, it had been a lousy month.

Morgan politely asked Marlene, a Gryffindor, to button up the back of her dress as she reflected that it really wasn't a good idea for her and Tom to not spend time together, considering that they were going to steal the Founder's Necklace as a team. Unless he had decided that wasn't the case anymore.

"Wow, this dress if gorgeous!" Marlene admired, "Did James really get this for you?"

Morgan grimaced at the mention of James. Poor fellow had gotten sick, and wouldn't be able to go to the party. The mediwitch had let him out of the infirmary only with the solid promise that he wouldn't leave the Gryffindor common room. It had been rather unusual, everyone agreed, because James never got sick, and now was such a terrible time to do so.

"Yeah," Morgan finally answered her new friend's question. "Wicked, isn't it?"

"Yes! I can't wait until you show it to him."

Morgan tied her hair up with the silk ribbon she had become fond of since first receiving her gift and nodded, just the slightest bit nervous. She hoped he wasn't disappointed by the way she looked. She wasn't curvy, like many of the other attractive girls in his year, nor was she exactly busty. Her makeup spells were very limited, so she had only been able to afford dusting her eyes with mascara and eyeliner.

Marlene dragged her by the arm when she noticed her hesitation. "You look beautiful," she whispered, straightening her own red gown. "Let's go!"

So Morgan swallowed her fears and insecurities and trekked down the stairs, very much so worried that she might trip in the black high heels she wore. Gracefulness wasn't something she was known for.

"Look at Leah! All pretty and dressed up," Charlus picked her up from the middle of the stairs by the waist, spinning her around until she was in the center of the room. Marlene tailed after them, a brilliant smile lighting up her green eyes. She had been one of the first Gryffindors to drag Morgan around and demand she get ready two hours before the party actually started.

"Potter, stop," James groaned from his seat on the couch, "Set her down here."

Charlus complied with a wolfish grin, dropping Morgan onto the couch immediately. When Morgan shot him a hard glare he shrugged helplessly.

Turning her attention to her sort-of boyfriend, Morgan swiped her hand across his forehead. "How ya feeling?" she asked sympathetically.

He pulled her onto his lap, the scar on his cheek crinkling together when he smiled, "Better now that you're here. You look gorgeous; I wish I could be there tonight."

Morgan gave him a quick chaste kiss on his forehead, "I'll stop by after, and bring you some soup from the kitchens."

"Promise?"

"Yeah," she said, running a hand over his buzzed hair. "I'll be with you all night."

Kayden and Charlus obviously didn't like the innuendo in that statement, and shook a finger at them, "No hanky-panky, kiddies."

Morgan rolled her eyes.

James brought her in for another kiss before pushing her off the couch, "Go on," he said, "Get out there and hurry back." He gave her another appreciative glance before sneaking back into the blankets that had been laid out for him. He looked like a little kid all bundled up like that, and the image soothed her.

And then Marlene was whisking her out of the common room, Kayden moving with them and throwing an arm over each of their shoulders. The perks to dating a smart girl, he had chirped when Potter had complained about not being invited.

The dungeon corridor leading to Slughorn's office was packed with nicely dressed students and guests, all filing in orderly to the enlarged party space. Morgan made sure to duck her head when she thought she saw Tom, but luckily there was too much ruckus for her to be singled out at all.

Trying to avoid all the heels, she clung to Kayden's arm until they were finally inside. A huge diamond chandelier hung in the center of the room, right over a temporary dance floor. Tables and chairs covered in expensive fabric littered the perimeter of the room, and already guests from outside of Hogwarts flitted from person to person, chatting pleasantly.

Kayden danced away her and Marlene then, determined to find his own date. After that, it wasn't long before Marlene's Ravenclaw swiped her away too, and Morgan was left by herself, scuffing her heels along the floor.

Her slumped shoulders seemed to turn off any potential dance partners, which was just fine with her, though there was one person that would not be deterred. Violetta sat next to her primly, her floor length black gown ruffling along the tiles.

"You really are poor company," she mused dryly, sipping a drink of some kind. "It's a shame that James isn't here. He owes you a night out after all that trouble you've been going through for him."

She was referring to, of course, the series of mocking jokes all the other Slytherins sent her way, and also the assault she was forced to endure. Thankfully, no one else had gotten physical with her like since then.

"Not tonight," Morgan muttered with a slight grin. Violetta truly was a one of a kind friend, and one of the only people that readily put up with her. "Go have fun with Braxton."

"Perhaps I will," Violetta said, flicking a strand of blonde hair from her cheek, "But only after I ask you this: what are you doing over Christmas break." Her icy eyes searched Morgan's for a long time.

Stealing a necklace. At least she thought she was.

"Nothing," she lied.

"Hmm," Violetta nodded before exhaling. How unusual, she looked nervous. "Would you like to come to my house for the first few days?"

Morgan had no idea why such a question would make her friend nervous, but she agreed anyways. The tension from the blonde's shoulders left immediately, "Good, then I'll meet you at the train platform tomorrow morning. Now you're right, I really must go see Braxton." With a small wave, she elegantly rose from her seat and lost herself in the crowd.

It was only moments later when the seat next to Morgan was filled again, this time with a male student. She recognized him as a seventh year Slytherin, and she eyed him dubiously. He leaned towards her with a wicked grin, "No Gryffindor with you now, eh?" and he folded his arms over his chest.

Morgan froze—one because she recognized the voice, and two because a very large ring with a family crest was staring her in the face.

"If it isn't the douche with the killer backhand," Morgan mumbled as she reflexively rubbed her already healed cheek.

Her old attacker grinned in response.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

**A/N: **WHEW. So I didn't go to school today because I accidentally set my clock BACK rather than forward (facepalm), but that's the only reason why this is out. I cranked out the whole thing today (all twenty-five pages) so I guess it was good news for you guys (: BIG BIG BIG things happening in next chapter, though I must admit we're around three fourths of the way finished with this fic. I'm already starting another fic so that when this one is over I'll be able to start posting right away. Its not another Harry Potter fic, but instead a Naruto one. It'll probably be just as epic and long as this one, haha. I'd like to thank all my lovely reviewers, and anyone else who Fave'd/Alert'd you guys really are my motivation 99.9% of the time (the other .1% is BMTH xD) Anyways, next chapter will probably be EPICALLY long too, but don't be expecting that for a few weeks. Hope y'all are having a lovely Monday.

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen: Breaking Up Is Hard To Do**

"Hello Miss Hume, not quite the dancer, hmm?"

Morgan narrowed her eyes in confusion, tracing the lines between the floorboards while she thought. The Slytherin seemed pleasant enough now, but she wasn't naïve. Any moment and she could find herself either poisoned, hexed, or dragged by her hair into a dark closet.

"Dancing isn't my thing." She raised her eyes briefly to get a better look at the older student. He was stocky, with a thick neck and small eyes. No wonder he had overpowered her so easily before.

"That's a shame," he ran an appreciative eye along her crossed legs; "you look gorgeous."

The muscles in Morgan's legs bunched together, more out of instinct than anything else. She gave the Slytherin a thin smile in response.

"The silent treatment, eh?"

No, it was the 'I-don't-talk-to-idiots' treatment, but she wasn't going to correct the kid.

The Slytherin sighed, "Look, about our earlier disagreement…no hard feelings?"

Morgan raised a speculative eyebrow, hoping he realized how full of shit she thought he was. She wasn't going to pretend getting her ass kicked was no big deal. Not only was her pride slightly scuffed in the exchange, but he had made her late to class.

Though there was no denying she was a tad bit curious. What was with the complete one-eighty? The Slytherin seemed to hate her a few weeks ago.

She _could_ ask why he suddenly thought about her as gorgeous and not 'bony', but throughout the years she had learned that saying nothing was far more effective than saying anything at all.

"I'm sorry about slapping you around," the Slytherin babbled, uneasy with her silence. He pretended to flick lint off his suit jacket. "I didn't know…"

Didn't know what?

He looked nervous as he crossed his arms, "Now you're practically family, you know that? Anything you need. You're pretty cunning too; no wonder you're in my house." He winked, trying to ease the palpable tension between them by throwing an arm around her shoulder.

She removed it with a warning glance.

"Right. Well then I'll just hand this to you and be on my way. Good job stringing along that Gryffindor—I never saw that twist coming."

The fuck?

The nameless Slytherin smiled vaguely before standing up to leave. He paused only to drop a slip of parchment in her hands.

Morgan fiddled with the edges of the note, her 'shit-is-about-to-hit-the-fan' senses tingling. The man who had left a nice mark across her face a few weeks ago now seemed to be…_scared_ of her.

It was such an unexpected development that she just knew it would lead to Very Bad things.

Teasing her bottom lip between her teeth she unfolded the note. Tom Riddle's neat script flashed under the candlelight:

_'Meet me in our room at midnight.'_

Anger flashed hot and fast through Morgan's chest. How the hell was the Room of Requirement _their_ room? He wouldn't even stay within five feet of her now, so it was stupid of him to say that they shared something like that. Besides, since they were currently not on speaking terms, the room was hers, damn it!

And then she realized she was getting angry because he was avoiding her. The implication it brought forth made her flush hotly. She actually missed his company, as strange and horribly twisted as that was.

Trailing her eyes around the perimeter of the dance floor, Morgan caught sight of Tom. He met her gaze, a small smirk playing along his lips as he stood intimately close to a prettily dressed girl.

Morgan hoped he felt her glare from the roots of his neatly combed hair to his toes. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, her suspicion about the whole situation reached new heights.

Why didn't Riddle just come over to her to tell her in person? What was the point of including a middle man, a messenger boy? And that smirk—Tom was very obviously pleased about something, and her glaring at him only seemed to carve the offending quirk of his lips more permanently upon his face.

What had that Slytherin said? That she was stringing along the Gryffindor? And the note, _'meet me in our room'_…

Morgan blanched. Tom's smile widened.

Oh, he was a bastard.

The piece of parchment burst into flames within her crumpled fist, the fire a product of her humiliation, anger, and hatred. It was a rare display of wandless and wordless magic, something that happened more often to young wizards not yet adept at controlling their newfound powers. Not that Morgan would ever be adept at magic.

Irritably brushing the soot from her hands, Morgan stood. She wasn't sure what she was going to do when she got her hands on the snake, but it wouldn't be pleasant.

Tom had obviously given the Slytherin his note with more than enough hints. He made the seventh year believe that she was sleeping with him while 'stringing' along James. Riddle was making her out to be the perfect snake, a true friend of the noble House of Slytherin. A whore.

Is this what happened to women who rejected Tom's advancements?

Tom flashed a quick smile before excusing himself from his date and disappearing into a small crowd of dancers. Morgan followed after him with a little less grace, smashing her elbows into people as she desperately tried to keep a shock of dark and pale skin within her line of sight.

She was almost free of the crowd when she ran into someone. This someone was obviously very big and tall, for the impact sent her flying to the floor in a flurry of curses. She waved away the procured hand, intent only on finding Tom so she could rip him to pieces, when the Big Someone stopped her.

"I'm very sorry, ma'am." The man's arms were holding her shoulders in place, as he thought that her swift movement was an affect of dizziness. "I did not mean to run into you."

Morgan gave a long suffering sigh of patience. "It's fine. I don't care. I need to get going, so if you'll please," she made a shooing motion with her hand and the man laughed.

"My name is Matthew, I am a friend of Slughorn. You are a student, yes?"

Without asking for permission, Matthew placed a hand on Morgan's lower back and began guiding her to the perimeter of the room. The young witch squirmed uncomfortably, and tried to find a polite way to tell her new companion to fuck off.

"Er, I'm looking for someone, so I shall take your leave now."

Matthew smiled, "You wouldn't deny me the company of a lovely lady now, would you? I'm all alone; my friend has left me in favor of more intelligent company." A tan hand gestured to the other end of the room, where a portly man was speaking with another student. A student with dark hair, who looked as if he hadn't seen the sun in years, who was…

"Tom," the name came out as a growl more than anything.

"Oh," Matthew said, "you know him?"

"Yes, he's the man I am going to be charged for murdering."

"Not a fan of his then," Morgan's companion nodded, "just as well. Anthony is no friend of mine either. He's a bumbling idiot."

Morgan found herself being gently, but firmly, pushed down into a seat. Matthew sat across from her, smiling through his blond hair. He leaned over the table as if enraptured by the stories Morgan had yet to tell.

He was creepy and intimidating in his own way, so Morgan supposed she should be cautious of him. Her thoughts were confirmed when he waved his hand over the candle in the middle of the table, alighting a flame upon its wick without the help of a wand.

The fire danced across the plane's of Matthew's face, revealing a set of three claw marks descending from his jawbone to his neck. Noticing her study of him, Matthew smiled and lightly brought his hand to ghost over the marred skin. "They have a certain charm, do they not?"

Morgan resisted the urge to rub her hands over the scars that had been sufficiently covered with magic prior to the party. Undeniably curious, Morgan leaned over the table, too, wondering about the origin of his scars.

Through narrowed eyes, Morgan was able to ascertain that Matthew's unfortunate markings were not the product of magic. They were jagged, not clear cut as hers were.

"I received these when—"

Morgan held up a hand, cutting off his explanation. Propping her head upon her arms, she spoke after another quiet minute of contemplation, "A werewolf."

Matthew's eyes lit with excitement, "Wonderful deduction miss…?"

"Just Leah."

Her companion leaned backwards in his chair, throwing the candlelight from his face to his broad chest. A pin tucked under the lapel of his collar flashed under its new attention, and Morgan had to force herself not to jump out of her seat.

It was Grindelwald's symbol.

Suddenly, past events made sense.

Tom had planned this from the beginning, since that night in the Room of Requirement. From trying on the dress to baiting her with that note, to James being _conveniently_ unavailable to escort her to the dance, he played her like a puppet. He had wanted her to chase after him tonight, just so she could be led straight to Matthew. For some reason or another, she was meant to talk with him, or…

Her eyes flashed back to where Tom stood with that Anthony man. Surely Riddle wouldn't trust her to gather information, so that meant she was just a distraction.

Oh man, how she hated him sometimes.

"I've never seen a young lady deduce the origin of my scars before," Matthew said, sounding amused.

Morgan half-heartedly shrugged. "It wasn't too hard," she replied, forcing herself to lean away from the table. "The cuts are jagged. Even a wizard with shitty aim wouldn't be able to do such a messy job of carving up your face."

Matthew raised one eyebrow, "Colorful vocabulary."

"Oh, it's a part of my _charm_, I suppose." The muscles in Morgan's arm were starting to strain, and she scowled, letting her thoughts wander. She was getting weaker, a bad sign. It meant that the clock was counting down faster than she thought.

"You look to be deep in thought. Care to share?" Matthew brought a glass of wine to his lips; a cup that Morgan knew wasn't there seconds earlier.

"It's a secret," Morgan mumbled, rubbing her temples.

"I like secrets."

Morgan couldn't help but give the pin under the lapel of his jacket a pointed look. "Oh, I'm sure you do."

Matthew's smile widened over his glass. "Would you like something to drink? Perhaps wine. It can be _our_ secret."

Ew. Sexual innuendo, not cool.

_'Don't scare him off.'_ A quiet voice in Morgan's head prompted. _'Tom needs more time.'_

Ugh, but why should that matter to her? Why was she even letting Tom play her for the fool? She should pay him back by spoiling his stupid plan.

"I don't like to share secrets," Morgan whispered, leaning over the table again with what she hoped was a coy smile.

Oh god. She really was a fool for Tom Riddle.

"You are quite the catch, Leah," Matthew mused, rubbing a hand over his face. "Are you spoken for?" He peeked at her through his fingers, seeming almost…weary

Morgan wiped the smile off her face and regarded him silently. "What's with that look?" she wondered.

"You seem too good to be true," Matthew admitted. "And I noticed you are in Slytherin, which is another warning. The women in other Houses are snakes, _Slytherin_ women are…downright beastly. I just hope I'm not getting in over my head."

Morgan snorted, "Oh god, that is so unbelievably true." She reached over and stole Matthew's glass of wine from the table, downing the rest of it in a single gulp. "But let me tell you something," she growled, heat burning in her stomach, "it's the men you have to watch out for."

Matthew laughed, a booming sound that attracted the attention of nearby ladies and lingering men. Morgan almost missed the questioning glance Kayden threw her way.

"In over my head indeed," he smiled, waving his hand and summoning two more glasses of wine. He batted away her quirked eyebrow, "Don't worry about drinking more, no one here would dare say a word against me."

Morgan shrugged, taking a much more cautious sip of her drink this time.

"So what were you saying about men?"

"Ah, right," she slammed her glass down on the table. "Men! They manipulate your emotions, use you for their own needs, and lie so well that you wouldn't be able to figure out what's true and what's not if your life depended on it. Complete bastards, fuck-ups in every sense of the term." She pointed towards Tom then, "Take that little bitch for example. I hate him, yet somehow I find myself following everything he says, even if I don't think I am. Ack, I wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole."

Morgan was vaguely aware of the fact that the wine was loosening her tongue, and she belatedly bit it. The ensuing silence was uncomfortable. "So…yeah, great pastries here, right?"

Matthew sighed, "Damn, you're taken by that fellow over there, aren't you?"

Morgan choked on air, "What? Were you not listening? I hate him. Fuck," she dropped her head on the table, letting the wood cool her flaming cheeks. "He's absolutely awful."

"You don't mean that."

Morgan sighed, "No, I don't. I wish I did, but I don't." She lifted her head to glare at Matthew, "but that doesn't mean I'm sleeping with him, so don't you dare assume that either."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Good. Can I have more wine?"

---

Morgan stumbled up the steps to the seventh floor, her head pounding. She had way too much to drink, which wasn't a good thing.

It was only her third time being drunk, and it made her mind wander, her steps falter, and her eyes burn. But most of all, it made her angry. Drinking always did.

Rubbing her eyes, Morgan tried to remember which portrait was the entrance to the Room of Requirement, a distinct feeling that she was forgetting something whirling around in her mind.

It was an easy feeling to ignore, considering most of her mind was being put to good use thinking of nasty things to say to Tom. It's not that she had a particularly bad time with Matthew—he was a good conversationalist (or maybe she was just drunk), and besides for the few times he tried to put his hand on her knee, he kept to himself. No, it was more of the fact that she was manipulated. Though she wasn't sure who she was angrier with, Tom or herself.

Finally, she found the portrait, or what she thought was the portrait. Right, now what did she have to do? Ugh, she couldn't think straight. She stalked towards the wall and began knocking on the bricks. "Open up Riddle!" She hollered, not bothering to lower her voice. "Open up the goddamn door!"

---

Tom Riddle rubbed his temples with one hand while rolling a jar around his fingers with the other. Inside, a piece of Anthony's hair lay limp. The evening had gone perfectly.

Leah really was a good little girl. She caught on quite quickly, he believed, for she certainly kept Matthew entertained.

The problem with Grindelwald's men was simple. They were put in groups of two, a competent man with a not-so competent man, in hopes that they would balance each other out. Matthew was perceptive, deadly cunning, and violent. Anthony was just the opposite.

In order to get to Anthony, Matthew had to be removed from the picture. Thankfully, Matthew had a…_weakness_ for good looking woman. Which is where Leah came in.

Once Matthew had been otherwise occupied, it was easy to hex Anthony. The spell made one answer questions truthfully without remembering doing so afterwards. It was one of Tom's best inventions.

He looked to the clock on the wall. Five past midnight. Where was that woman?

A smile flickered across his face when he thought about how angry she would be. She would probably scream and yell and holler about how much she hated him, but in the end she would submit to him. All it would take is one hand to brush against her hidden dark mark.

At least he hoped that would happen. He didn't like to think of the other possibilities. Ones where Leah would stalk into the room, quite calmly listen to what he had to say, and then leave without another word. They had been avoiding each other since that night a few weeks back, and he hoped that the tension would have dissipated by now.

He wasn't sure what to think about what happened. And he hated to be unsure about anything. He hadn't gone in there planning to force himself on her, but for some reason that was exactly what he ended up doing.

It had been a spontaneous act, one he hadn't thought out. He just suddenly knew what he wanted, and went for it. And why should that bother him? Leah was right, underneath it all he was a guy, so of course he had certain attractions...but to _her_? That made no sense at all.

"Why does it have to make sense?" he wondered aloud, pocketing the vial of Anthony's hair. Sure, Leah wasn't the most attractive of girls out there, and she was loud, not to mention obnoxious and unsavory. But that didn't mean she wasn't pretty or endearing at times, and wasn't that unwillingness to submit what he liked about her? A challenge—that was what he saw her as.

And besides, hadn't he already established that she was _his_, and he could do with her what he pleased?

If there was one thing he didn't understand, though, it was why she resisted. It had been quite the surprise. He knew she was attracted to him (who wasn't?) so what held her back?

The experience had been interesting and awkward all rolled up into one nice package. And he could still taste her skin on his lips.

He groaned and pounded his temples again, willing his thoughts to turn to more important things. He had discovered when Grindelwald's men were going after the Founders Necklace. He could either snag it before them, or…snag it with them.

He was patting the vile in his pocket smugly when he heard someone pounding against the wall.

"—Open up the goddamn door!"

Leah? Was she stupid or something?

Swearing, Tom leaped over the couch and ripped open the door to the Room of Requirement. Leah was there, outside in the hallway, fist poised to bang on the wall again. He was just about to yank her into the room when she rounded on him.

"You!" she growled, and she pushed him into the room, closing the door behind them. "You sick, manipulative bastard!" each curse was punctuated with a strong poke to his chest. "You're so fucking mean! That's what you are, mean!"

Tom frowned and grabbed her finger before it could reach him again. Confused, he tilted her head upwards. Leah's eyes were glassy, and her steps staggering.

_Oh for the love of god_. She couldn't stay out of trouble for one fucking day, could she?

"You're drunk!?"

"No!" she shrieked, "I am angry! Angry at you…or myself. Maybe both. Yes, let's go with both!" She ripped her small hand away from him and pushed against his chest. "You played me like a puppet! And I can't believe I fell for it!"

"Leah, sit down."

"No!" she snapped, "I want to know why! Why didn't you trust me enough to _ask_ me to distract that Grindelwald prick? Is this because I didn't kiss you? Is that why? Because I rejected you and you were hurt but you think you're too macho to admit it!?"

Tom glowered, trying to keep his temper in check. He let out a breath of air. "That's not why, Leah." He kept a firm grip on her shoulders, pushing her down onto the nearby couch.

Somehow, Leah got a hold of his tie, tangling their legs and dragging them both to the floor. "That is why! You're not used to not getting what you want so you break what you can't get, eh?" she was awkwardly draped across him, her fist pounding into his chest. "I hate you! I hate me! I hate everything!"

Grunting, Tom got a good grip on her wrists and pushed her off him, folding his legs under him so he rested on his knees. He made sure to keep Leah at arm's length, and was surprised to see tears streaking down her face. "Calm down!"

"No! I hate this! I hate you, you murderer!"

"Fine," Tom pressed his thumb down on where he knew her mark to be, eliciting a cry of pain from her. The cry was ended short however, when her body was racked with deep shuddering coughs. Her shoulders shook with the force of them.

The pain seemed to sober her up a little, and she meekly tried to twist away from him, all her anger gone. "Let me go," she wheezed, trying to crawl backwards.

Tom kept his hand tightly round her arm, "Are you going to hit me again, or scream?"

"No," she gave an experimental tug, and Tom released her. He leaned against the bottom of the couch, breathing a bit harder than usual due to their struggle. Why was it he was always physically fighting her? For some reason, he hadn't even thought to use his wand.

Leah stumbled to her feet, smaller coughs making their way out of her chest. He watched curiously as small spasms shook her arms. For the most part, she ignored them, instead furiously and clumsily wiping at her eyes, only succeeding in smearing more of her makeup.

"Are you okay now?"

"Fine," she said scathingly, rubbing her arms now, as if disgusted by his touch. "I'll just be leaving."

"Wait."

"No."

"I said stop." Tom's tone darkened exponentially as he felt familiar and dark anger building in his chest. It was the same anger that helped him deliver the killing blow to his father and grandparents, the same anger that fueled his hate. It gave him strength.

And, apparently, it gave him obedience.

Leah was frozen by the door, still crying.

"Three days from tomorrow, in the alley near the Leaky Cauldron, a blue brick will be activated as a port-key. It will be active for thirty seconds, starting at five pm. If you do not meet me within the first ten, I will assume you want no part in this anymore and leave without you. If that is the case, once we come back from break I will modify your memory, whether you want me to or not."

"I hate you," Leah whispered. And then she simply left.

Tom rubbed his chest… a part of him hurt.

---

Morgan pressed the heel of her palm into her eyes, fighting against her killer hangover. The sun in the sky didn't help, nor did the screaming students on the platform. Morgan childishly kept one hand in Violetta's while the other tried to wipe away the evidence of her tears.

Everything hurt. Not just her body, which was wracked with coughs every thirty or so minutes, but her heart. Last night hadn't gone well. And she knew exactly whose fault that was.

She probably wouldn't have even gotten up in the morning if it hadn't been for Violetta. After her fight with Tom, she had cried her way all the way back to the dorm, tripping up the stairs to her room. Violetta had been up reading, took one look at her tear streaked face, and gently tugged her to bed. She helped Morgan change out of her dress, wiped away her tears, and held her while they continued to fall.

It was a weird experience. Violetta had always been cool, aloof, and unreachable. But last night she had been warm and comforting, almost what Morgan imagined a mother to be.

The best part was she didn't even ask what was wrong. She simply muttered soothing words into her hair, telling her it was going to be alright. Even if it wasn't. She even snapped at Lucretia when the Black descendent complained about the loud noise, and then proceeded to pet Morgan's head until she fell asleep.

Morgan didn't know how she could ever thank her.

"Here's good," the blonde witch muttered to herself, sliding the compartment door open and closing it behind them. "Wouldn't you say so, Hume?"

Morgan nodded, collapsing in one of the seats and leaning her head against the window. "I hate drinking."

"Nasty habit," Violetta agreed, pulling out a book.

Silence filled the space between them while Violetta read, though Morgan couldn't say she minded. It was pleasant, especially after all the noise. She was almost lulled to sleep by the train's movements, that is, until James slid into the compartment.

Violetta glanced at him, registered the look on his face, and got up silently. "I do believe I should go find Braxton, make sure he doesn't waste his family fortune on food. Good day, Darley, Leah."

Morgan watched wearily as James sat down across from her, his hands on his knees. He looked almost as bad as she did, with dark circles under his eyes and mussed robes. He allowed Morgan to study him silently for a minute before he spoke.

"Did you sleep with someone last night?"

Morgan cast her glance back towards the passing scenery. Really, what a perfect way to start vacation, "No."

Hands reached over to cup her face, and Morgan found her eyes meeting those of her sort-of-boyfriend. "Leah, darling, its okay, just tell me the truth. Kayden saw you with another man, drinking wine. He told me he saw that same man walk you out of the party, stumbling over your own feet."

"Nothing happened," Morgan mumbled, "I left then, for my dorm."

James gaze darkened. "No you didn't," he whispered. "You went into your dorm over an hour later."

"How do you know?" Morgan demanded, tired of all the accusations.

"Lucretia."

"And you believe her!?"

"You had told me you were going to stop by after the party to stay with me last night, but you never did. Can't you see where these questions are coming from?" He brushed her hair out of her eyes. "Just tell me the truth. You were drunk, I understand. You weren't in the right mind."

Morgan pushed his hands away angrily. "Listen to me! I didn't sleep with anyone! Why can't you believe me? Yes, I spoke with Matthew that evening and yes he walked me out of the party, but he left after that! I swear!"

James' eyes narrowed, "So its _Matthew_ then, is it?

"Goddamn it, James, of course I know his name, we talked for two hours! It's not unusual to know someone's name."

"Then what were you crying about?"

Oh god, she was going to wring Lucretia's neck.

"James, please, listen to me. Nothing happened!"

"Then tell me what did!" James bounced to his feet, clenching his fists. He was getting angry, too. "Where did you go?!"

"I got lost, I was drunk! I went straight to my dorm, sorry if it took a little longer for me to get there."

"Damn it Leah, that has to be the weakest excuse I've ever heard." The Seventh year Gryffindor was breathing heavily now. "Just tell me the truth and I can move on. _We_ can move on. Come with me to my house for break, we can be together. My family is alive, did I tell you that? They have a new house, out of Britain, where the bombs aren't a danger. We can be together then, I promise I'll take care of you for the rest of your life, just please, tell me the truth."

Love? _Love_?

"You…love me?" Oh fuck, why now? She always wanted to be loved, hadn't she? And now she had her chance. It was right in front of her.

But she couldn't go to his house, the port-key…

More tears threatened to fall. Why was she thinking about Tom now? Hadn't she decided she wasn't going to help him, that he and this whole fucking mission could rot in hell for all the pain it caused her? She deserved to be happy with James.

_'No' _a voice whispered, _'you don't. You've let this go on for far too long. James deserves to be happy, and you could never do that. Not with what…four weeks to live? Stop being selfish.'_

"Yes," James said, excitedly, "I love you Leah, more than you know. We can be happy together."

It was a struggle to force the steel into her voice, "If you loved me, you would believe me."

James face fell, "Leah…"

"I'm happy your family is alive," she continued, looking at the floor, "but I can't go with you. Not now. Not ever."

"Leah, stop talking like this—"

"No, listen to me James. When we began this you told me if it didn't work out, it didn't work out. It's not working out. I don't love you."

James stopped in front of her, "Please, let's just talk about this for a little while."

"No," Morgan haughtily turned her gaze to the window. "Leave."

"Please—"

"James, begging is rather pathetic, don't you think?" Morgan looked back at him and almost broke at the expression on his face. Her mind begged her to be softer, to go easier on him, it didn't have to be this hard for him. She didn't have to be so cruel.

No, she did. James was too nice, too sweet, to give her up so easily. He would keep coming back to her, keep forgiving her and giving her second chances. And god, if he did she wouldn't be able to turn him down. He had to hate her.

"Just go, now, preferably."

James looked comically shocked, "So this is how it ends? 'Just go'? I thought you were different Leah. I thought you were better than these other snakes, but you're not. You're just as bad as them. What was this to you, some stupid game?"

"Think whatever you want."

"You're cruel, Leah," James said, turning towards the door. "Just tell me one thing, did you have sex with that man?"

"Yes."

The compartment door slid open and then shut.

James was wrong about one thing. She wasn't as bad as those snakes, she was worse.

---

Tom tapped his wand lightly against his other hand, a small smile curving his lips upwards. Oh yes, Leah was a snake. Unfortunately for James, he was ignorant of exactly what kind.

---

"Now Leah, erm, I'm trusting you on this," Violetta twisted her hands together anxiously.

Morgan raised her head, surprised. "Man, Violetta you sure are tense. What's the big deal?" She scuffed her shoes against the ground, her skirt swaying along her legs. She really did hate the clothes of the 50's. All conservative. Black skirt, blue blouse, black shoes. So boring.

She glanced at Violetta, who was tightly clutching her small trunk. Morgan had to admit she was surprised when Violetta entered their compartment five minutes before their arrival to inform her that they would have to walk to her house. Thankfully, by that time, Morgan had finished wiping her eyes about her encounter with James.

Morgan didn't mind walking; she just thought that Violetta was bat-shit crazy rich.

"No one has ever been to my house before," the blond witch admitted. "It won't be what you expect."

Morgan dodged a man in a business suit, pulling her bag with her. "What," she joked, "No iron wrought gate?"

Violetta winced before drawing to a stop on the corner.

"What, are we taking a cab?" Morgan wondered, examining the crowded street and buildings. The area wasn't exactly the best one to stop in. Though it hadn't suffered any bombings, it was shady, filled with raggedly dressed people and the occasional homeless man. The Leaky Cauldron was only five or six blocks away, and Morgan just knew what types of _savory_ people stayed there.

"No," Violetta said, straightening her back and shoulders. She looked formidable when she turned to face Morgan. "We're here."

Morgan furrowed her brow, looking at the building Violetta pointed to. It was in shambles, with peeling paint and a cracked glass door. A large apartment complex that looked like it was being suffocated by the buildings around it.

Morgan swallowed her surprise, aware of the gaze her friend was fixing her with. "Absolutely charming," she said with a grin, "I call top bunk!"

Violetta let out a whoosh of air, awkwardly patting Morgan's shoulder. "Sure," she smiled, and it was a real smile, not that aloof and detached one Morgan was used to seeing. "Come meet my family."

Violetta stepped through the creaky door and into a shady hallway. Broken lights peppered the ceiling, and the wallpaper was peeling. Morgan was almost afraid of how much weight she could put on the stairs, for they creaked and groaned when she placed her trunk on them.

Fortunately, they made it up the stairs without falling through them and approached a door on the third floor. The green paint was peeling off that too, and a measly C-2 hung sideways off it. Violetta pulled it open without a word.

Morgan had barely caught a glimpse of tan hallway paint when two shots of blond hair attacked Violetta's legs. Morgan had her wand halfway out before she realized the blond shots were actually kids.

Violetta had siblings?

"Vi! Vi!" a screechy girl voice exclaimed. "You're finally back! Daniel was being so mean to me! He pulled my hair and stole my doll."

"Oh shut up, stupid girl," the boy attached to Violetta's legs muttered. "It was an accident," he insisted.

"Oh darlings," Violetta stooped to the floor, smiling as she wrapped both arms around her siblings. "Marti, I'll buy you a new doll, and Daniel, for goodness sakes, keep your hands to yourself."

Morgan stood awkwardly in the door way, taking the time to observe the rest of Violetta's house. The apartment seemed to be in better condition than the rest of the building, for the walls weren't peeling and Morgan thought she spied a strip of blue carpeting further in. But there was still the distinct smell of decay.

"Who is she?" Morgan turned her head to the voice, noticing a young girl that could have been fifteen standing at the end of the hallway. She held a spatula in one hand and wore an apron around her waist. She looked so much like Violetta that Morgan had to do a double take. The only difference was their eyes. This girl had big brown orbs as opposed to blue ones.

"Oh!" Violetta let out a delighted laugh, tugging her younger siblings upwards. "This is Leah Hume, a fellow classmate of mine."

The girl frowned, "So she's a freak, too?"

"April!" Marti cried from behind Violetta's legs, "that's a mean word!"

Daniel peered at her through his long hair suspiciously, though he nodded his head in agreement nonetheless.

Violetta immediately stiffened, her eyes cooling off instantly, "April, please—"

Morgan pushed past Violetta, rushing forward and grabbing April's free hand. She shook it with an exaggerated motion. "Yes ma'am, that's me. A certified freak. Pleasure to meet you!" She gave Violetta and her younger siblings a wink.

April's mouth popped open in shock, though seconds later she regained herself and snatched her hand back. She ignored Morgan, and instead glared at Violetta, "Dad won't be happy. Dinner is in thirty minutes."

Morgan watched the blonde girl walk away gracefully, her long hair swaying behind her. She forced herself to turn away and not glare, opting to kneel down and stick her hand out to Daniel and Marti, who seemed more at ease now.

"My name is Leah," she said, her eyes flickering to Violetta, who gave Daniel a slight push.

Daniel's hair was almost too dark to be called blonde, and his golden eyes were an odd shade. He was unique looking, especially when he couldn't decide whether to scowl or smile. He stuck out a grubby hand for her to shake.

Marti was much more outgoing. She flaunted her pink dress and nervously tugged at her pigtails when she offered Morgan her hand, a flurry of questions leaving her mouth. Did she have special powers like Violetta, could she make paper origami, and did she know that her eyes were just the _cutest_ shade of blue?

Morgan grinned and answered the questions with good humor, more than used to how inquisitive little children could be. A small part of her longed for the children in the orphanage she grew up in, but for now Daniel and Marti were good replacements.

As soon as the kids left, presumably to go help their elder sister with dinner, Morgan turned to her friend. "You never told me you had siblings."

Violetta gave a humorless laugh. "I never told you a lot of things."

"Why?" Morgan wondered, curious. She followed as Violetta began leading them through the hallway, past the living room, and down to a wall lined with doors. She opened one and gestured for Morgan to enter.

It was a small bedroom with one bed in the corner and another make-shift one set up on the floor with blankets. It was plain white, with nothing decorative besides for a picture that sat on the bed table. It was one of Violetta with another woman, who Morgan could only guess to be her mother.

A tiny closet took up the right side of the room and then…that was it.

Violetta set her trunk on the bed and sighed. "Take a look around Morgan. This house isn't exactly Slytherin material."

"So what?"

"So what? I'm a half-blood too," she said coolly. "Just imagine what would happen to me at Hogwarts if this got out."

"Aw, _Vi Vi_, Morgan sat next to her friend with a grin, "I don't care about that stuff. And you shouldn't either. I think you're siblings are awesome, besides for the one that looks like she wants to gouge my eyes out with a spatula."

Violetta snorted, "April," she said sadly. "I'm sorry about her."

"Don't worry about it," Morgan waved her hand. "Let's just eat, eh?"

Violetta wrung her hands again, "About that…my father, is…well. Just don't give him any bother, okay?" She stood up suddenly and offered her hand. "Let's go."

---

As it turned out, Morgan didn't have to worry about Violetta's father. He didn't show up that night. In fact, he didn't show up the night after, either. He was a taboo in the household though. Daniel and Marti never asked about his whereabouts and Violetta froze whenever April mentioned him. Morgan could guess about why this was, but doing so made her sick.

Besides for that, life at the Fanding household was rather nice. April was as unapproachable as ever, but Daniel and Marti were delights. They wrestled with Morgan on the living room floor and eagerly took her out shopping at the corner store. They seemed especially enraptured with the stories Morgan told.

The time that wasn't spent with Daniel and Marti was spent with Violetta. She and Morgan went ice-skating on their first day, and talked afterwards far into the night. Violetta was like a completely different person at home—more open and kind then what Morgan was used to. She laughed freely, beamed freely, and appeared to even breathe easier. Morgan could see why Braxton was crazy about her.

But for the past two nights, when Violetta would drift off to sleep and Morgan would be kept up coughing, her mind would be plagued with thoughts of Tom. Would she go? Not go? What would be the consequences of each decision?

She didn't want her memories erased. No way. Even allowing Tom to enter her mind was dangerous. Should the answer should be easy.

But then she thought about how angry she was. He made her feel terrible and used, from the way he kissed her to the way he played her emotions to his advantage. She didn't think she could look at him, let alone fight with him against Grindelwald's men.

But despite that hardened resolve to never see Tom again, Morgan still found herself darting into a black market wizard drug shop. Today was the day Tom would go for the Necklace, and there she was buying tons of pills. Pills to ignore pain, pills to give her strength, and pills that caused large and dangerous spikes in adrenaline.

If she was going, (which she wasn't) those pills would be vital. The spasms that wracked her limbs and the coughs that shook her chest would be a hindrance in the mission. If she was going, (which she wasn't) she couldn't afford to be slowed down at all.

But even clutching the pills to her chest made her uneasy, and each tick of the clock that brought her closer to five pm made her ill.

Before their early dinner Violetta asked her about it, slipping into their room. "You seem worried."

Morgan clenched her fists, resisting the urge to fiddle with the bag of pills resting in her trunk. "Maybe I'm a _little_ worried," she admitted. "I'm going to my old orphanage for a few days." The lie slipped off her tongue easily.

Violetta frowned, remembering the hateful way that Morgan had spoken about that place. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"When are you leaving?"

"Before five."

_'Seriously, Morgan? Seriously!? You're going, going flouncing back to Riddle even after everything that's happened?'_

Apparently.

She fought back a grimace.

_'It's for the good of the mission. For the good of wizarding kind. I can't fail Dumbledore or Harry. That's the only reason I'm going.'_

_ 'Oh god, you're transparent. How the fuck have you managed to keep us alive for so long? One would think that Tom would be able to see right through you.'_

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," Morgan sighed, pulling a hand through her hair.

"Well, if you say so." Violetta gave a small smile, "Come on, dinner is ready."

Morgan nodded, trailing after her friend until they reached the living room. A rickety wooden table sat in the center of the modest room, and already Violetta's siblings were seated, waiting to eat. April was holding a pot, dishing out rice with a small smile directed at Marti. At the end of the table sat a man Morgan hadn't seen before. It must have been Violetta's father.

He was fat, with a wild beard and glazed over blue eyes. He clutched a beer in one hand and a fork in another. "Violetta," he barked, "my darling daughter where is my hug?"

Violetta blanched, twisting around to send a questioning glare to April, who studiously avoided her gaze. When it became apparent that the younger girl wasn't going to answer the question of why their father was suddenly home, she stepped stiffly to her him, bending down slightly to accommodate his position. "Hello father," she said woodenly at the same time Morgan took a seat next to Daniel. "It's nice to see you again."

"I'll say. Never get to fucking see you during the year. We need to talk about pulling you out of that school" He wagged a fat finger at his child before he noticed their guest. "And who is this?"

Morgan raised a hand, "Leah Hume, nice to meet you sir."

Violetta's father frowned, "You paying for your own shit while you're here, aren't ya?"

Violetta winced, "Father," she said softly, sitting down next to him and placing a hand on his shoulder.

"No," he batted her hand away. "Don't touch me. I was asking Maggie here a question."

"Don't worry, I have my own money," Morgan gripped her fork and forced a smile.

"I have my own money what?"

Morgan furrowed her eyebrows in confusion.

"Damn it girl," a meaty hand slammed down on the table, "didn't those goddamn parents of yours teach you any manners? I have my own money, _sir_!"

"Father," Violetta said sternly, her eyes darkening.

"Shut up," her dad replied, looking eerily calm as he watched Morgan.

Daniel and Marti had their heads lowered, and April was clutching at the table, her skin a deathly pale color.

Morgan sighed, "I didn't have any parents."

"No parents!" the table shook again. "What type of whore was your mother that she gave you away without teaching you nothing? Goddamn women, I tell you. Dirty sluts all of them, look at my daughter!" He pointed at April, who appeared close to tears, "A filthy whore. Just like her mother."

Violetta rose to her feet, "That is enough Father!" she slammed her hands down on the table. "I think it's time you went to bed. You've just gotten home, and you're tired."

"How dare you!" her dad roared, bringing himself to his full height, which was pretty impressive. "How dare you speak to the man who provides for you like that?"

"Go to bed!"

"Go to bed, _sir_!" The resounding slap echoed through the room. Marti was sobbing and Daniel clutched at Morgan's arm like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. The tears finally fell from April's eyes.

"Daddy! Please, stop! Don't hurt her!" Marti was scrambling to her feet, attempting to run to her father when Morgan scooped her up in her arms.

The whole left side of Violetta's face was an angry red color, but besides that she looked unfazed. Only Marti's cries broke the silence.

Her father was looking at his hand as if he didn't recognize it. He glanced back at his daughter, "Look at what you made me do!" he seemed to be near tears himself. "Look!" He advanced on her, his steps stumbling. "I come home after some long days at work and this is what I get? An ungrateful daughter! Goddamn it!"

Morgan's grip on Marti tightened as her free hand darted to her pocket. She had her wand out instantly. "Don't move."

Violetta glanced at Morgan, and widened her eyes. She silently shook her head, but it was already too late. Her father spun around.

All of a sudden, his anger inflated, brewing around him like a storm. "You point that at me!? YOU DARE POINT THAT AT ME!?"

Daniel started crying then, too, his nose buried into Morgan's arm as he tried to drag her wand down. "Don't hurt Daddy!"

Morgan ignored him. "Yes, I dare point that at you. And I'll dare to hex you too if you don't step away from your daughter."

"Leah, please," Violetta said, the only one with a calm demeanor. "My father just needs some rest; he didn't mean to hit me."

Her dad swelled upwards, "Of course I didn't mean to hit my daughter. I would never do such a thing." He glared at Morgan ferociously. "Stop pointing that thing at me."

Morgan didn't lower her wand, "I think your father should leave now, Violetta. He isn't in his right mind."

Violetta's father swept a hand across the table, sending dishes flying off it. "You think you can tell me to leave my own house! I think not!" He kicked a few chairs out of his way, starting towards Morgan.

She prepared to curse him.

Suddenly someone much stronger was staying her arm. Violetta had darted around the table, forcefully pulling Morgan's arm down and holding out another hand to stop her dad. "Leah, I think you should leave."

Marti cried louder.

Violetta's father beamed. "That's my girl. Not at all like your whore of a mother or your sister, are ya?"

Violetta tightened her grip on Morgan, "No father. I'll show my friend the door. Please go to sleep, I'll make you more dinner and deliver it to you in bed."

"Damn right you will," he growled, "and clean up this goddamn mess too."

And with that, he stumbled off to bed.

---

Violetta let out a sigh, closing her eyes briefly before turning around and facing Morgan and the rest of her family. She spoke to April first, who looked sick, "April, honey, can you please make dad another plate of dinner—no, no, don't worry, I'll bring it in to him." She then kneeled down beside her younger siblings, each one clutching one of Morgan's appendages. "Now, now, my little darlings," she reached forward and gathered them in her arms, kissing their temples. "No more tears, Daddy is just sick. He'll be better in the morning, just like always, right? Daniel, I need you to be big and strong and take care of your sister. You can eat your dinners in your room, but just this once." She tapped each of their noses.

Her siblings scattered at her word, following her directions without so much as one question. Morgan was left slightly dumfounded as a better picture of Violetta Fanding formed in her mind. The young woman was so much more than the snotty Slytherin that she first appeared to be.

"Come, Leah, help me gather your things."

Morgan followed her without question, too, striding into their room and shutting the door behind them. "Violetta…" but before she could say anymore she saw her friend's tears. "Aw man."

Rushing over, Morgan draped her arms around the taller witch, letting her soundless sobs shake both of their bodies. "It's okay. You did good."

It was a few minutes before Violetta could speak, but when she did, it was with a steady voice. "I'm sorry about that. Father is just…"

"A dick, yeah, I noticed."

"No, no," Violetta pushed Morgan away and wiped away the tears that had already stopped falling. "He just has a problem. Mother was witch, and when she left he was devastated."

"That's no excuse for hitting you," Morgan protested, sitting on the bed and watching as Violetta pulled out her wand to heal her bruise. "And you shouldn't heal that, let him see what he's done to you."

"No," Fanding whispered, "I can't do that. He won't even remember what happened tomorrow, and he'll just feel bad if he sees the bruise."

"So what!? Let him feel bad! Violetta you can't—"

"Yes, Leah, I can. I'm sorry, but you really should leave for your orphanage now."

Morgan observed Violetta's stiff figure and red eyes, understanding that it wasn't meanness that made her ask for her to leave. It was simple really: Violetta may have been strong about everything else, but when it came to her father she was weak. Morgan could understand that.

"Ah well, it's almost five anyways." She smiled brightly before kneeling down beside her trunk. "You don't mind if I leave the majority of my stuff here, do you? I'll pick it up after tomorrow, I'm just going to grab some money." She reached into the trunk to grab the bag filled with pills.

Violetta sighed, further composing herself. "But of course, Hume. I should expect you back by tomorrow then?"

Would she be back by tomorrow? Would she even be alive by tomorrow? Eh, who knew? "Yeah, tomorrow, three days, something like that. I'll be back to get it though, don't worry."

Violetta nodded, folding her hands behind her back and beginning to lead Morgan toward the front door, "Listen, Leah, about this…I—"

Morgan clasped her hands on Violetta's shoulders, "Hey, listen Vi Vi, you're my best friend, probably my only friend. You don't need to apologize. I understand. I don't like it, but I understand. I'll be back soon, say goodbye to the brats for me, eh?"

Violetta dragged her in for a quick hug, clutching her tightly for a moment before pulling away. "Goodbye."

---

Morgan paced up and down, her eyes locked on one, tiny brick. Should anyone have chosen to walk down the alley at that point, they might have been slightly intimated by the intense expression on her face. But thankfully, she was alone.

One minute to five.

She clenched the bag of pills in her pocket, shuffling her feet in her newly bought trousers and boots. Was she really going to go? Aw fuck, it sure seemed like it.

For the good of wizarding kind.

Thirty seconds to five.

She let out a tremendous breath, toeing the ground and contemplating just how fucked up she was to do this.

Fifteen seconds to five.

Her mind flashed briefly back to James and the look on his face. She had to go; she had to justify breaking his heart like that. If she didn't go, all those cruel things she said to him would have been for nothing.

Five pm.

But could she handle seeing Tom? God he infuriated her. She hated what he did to her and yet here she was.

Ten seconds past five.

_'I'm doing this for the good of the wizarding world.'_

Fifteen seconds past five.

_'You could always steal it from him. You don't have to go. There are other ways.'_

_ 'No! There are no other ways. This is the only way! I'm doing this for the good of wizarding kind, DAMN IT.'_

Twenty-five seconds past five.

Who was she kidding? She knew exactly who she was doing this for.

She touched the blue brick.


	21. Chapter Twenty

**A/N: **Oh my god! SHE'S FINALLY UPDATING! HOMG NOWAII! Yes, I know it's been over three months. I apologize. I was just at a crossroads in the story, so yeah, things had to be decided, sandwiches had to be eaten...you know, the usual. Anyways, next update should be coming a hell of a lot faster. Once again, thanks to all you patient people who read, and thanks to everyone who reviews/faves/alerts this story. Y'all my inspiration. I would like to give a special thank-you to **Anonymous Echo** who sent me an awesome review that kicked me off my butt and got me updating. They were also the person to point out to me that Fanfiction has EATEN my line breakers from previous chapters. I really should fix those, and probably will get along to doing that sometime in the near future.

Enjoy 28 pages of deliciousness!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty: Chimeras and Acromantulas and Torture, Oh My! **

Morgan didn't have any expectations when she first touched the Portkey, but that didn't mean she wasn't shocked and annoyed as hell when her knees sank thigh deep into wet mud upon her landing.

"Goddamn it." she scowled at the ground, promptly told it to go fuck itself, and made slow work of finding her legs in the dirt.

Water lapped at the edge of her skirt, and she realized she had been so rushed that she hadn't even thought about changing into more practical clothing. Berating herself for her stupidity, she finally rose to her feet with a sigh. Her knees were already beginning quiver, which meant that her muscle tissue was starting to corrode.

Her fingers fumbled for the miracle pills in her pocket. She pulled out two blue cylinders that felt smooth to the touch and glowed in the pre-sunset light.

_I'm not scared, _Morgan thought determinedly, _I'm not scared of my own body. _But she was. She was deteriorating slowly but surely, and there was nothing she could do about it. It wasn't like her adversary was a physical being whose ass she could try and kick.

She swallowed back her feelings of helplessness as well as the adrenaline pills.

A shudder ran through her body, causing it to shake with pent up energy as opposed to exhaustion. Everything around her came into sharp focus. It was almost as if she was truly seeing for the first time, like a child who goes through life in need of glasses and only gets them years and years later.

Morgan figured she could understand why people became so easily addicted to drugs. The forest around her was suddenly so beautiful, and the thought of it turning back to a blurred clump of green foliage was almost unbearable.

Fuck, the drugs were already messing with her mind.

Morgan sighed and glanced around her surroundings. The Portkey had landed her in the middle of a large clearing, with trees creating a semi-circle around her and the bank of the lake she rested at. Directly across the lake there was a rock face with a large hole carved out of its left side. A flash of black fabric flitted through the cave's entrance.

So apparently, that's exactly where she was supposed to be going. Wasn't she just so _fucking_ lucky?

Not only was she expected to go through a creepy ass rock tunnel, but she had to get there first. And seeing how she never mastered apparition, well, shit, it was going to be a long walk.

Thank god she was bustling with energy. Fucking pills.

Fucking Tom Riddle.

* * *

Morgan was frozen outside the entrance to the cave, her arms crossed neatly over her chest. Her shoes were soaking wet, which was only to be expected since she had been trekking along the bank of a river.

Last minute indecision spun circles around her. The dark cavern looked foreboding, and that was putting it nicely. It had been over a half-hour since she had caught sight of Riddle stealing into the cave, and a part of her had desperately hoped that by the time she reached the entrance he would have already retrieved the necklace and be on his way out.

But of course that wasn't the case.

It was probably dangerous in there. Really dangerous. She was a terrible witch, and even with the pills she doubted she would stand a chance against the obstacles she had a feeling would be thrown her way.

But really, there was no guarantee that Tom would leave the cave the same way he went in, and that meant that waiting for him outside was out of the question.

Darkness was falling, and the surrounding forest was no safe place to be. Morgan couldn't apparate back to the Leaky Cauldron. Her only chance of getting home was through Riddle. And her only way of finding Riddle was going through the cave.

Damn.

She really would have to go in there.

Sighing, Morgan set her shoulders back. Here goes nothing.

The muddy bank of the river gradually gave way to solid stone as she approached the entrance, and the temperature around her grew distinctly cooler. The stretching walls of the cavern were jagged and rough, and she heard the telltale signs of running water further in.

Morgan pulled out her wand and illuminated her surroundings, giving them a cursory glance before happily deducing that she was alone. Some part of her still worried that she would come face-to-face with Grindelwald's men.

So, nothing too bad so far. Kind of really anticlimactic.

Morgan inhaled deeply and exhaled suddenly. There, up ahead, a wall of solid ragged stone stood, effectively sealing off the rest of the cave. There weren't any side tunnels to explore either, so that meant she had to find a way around or through the imposing slab of stone.

"Oh," she grumbled, "_awesome_." Morgan held her wand lightly in front of her, stepping closer to the obstacle and studying it in more depth. Something in her stomach plummeted to her feet as she spied a ragged edge of the wall covered in blood.

Drawing a finger along the stone, Morgan found that whosever blood that was, it had been spilled recently. It was still wet, and slightly warmer than the air around her. There wasn't any other blood around, not on the floor or the other walls of rock enclosing her. So that meant someone had deliberately cut themselves and spread their blood on the rock.

Why?

Worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, Morgan determinedly ran her wand along the stone, while muttering a quick revealing spell meant to repel basic illusions. It was probably one of the earliest spells she had mastered, mostly because she had relied on it so much during her first year at Hogwarts. Notes, with their true content hidden under a simple illusion, were passed throughout class. The revealing spell washed away the fake content and showed the reader the actual message.

It had worked pretty damn well up until third year, when most of the teachers wised up to the hoax (though Morgan had a theory that they had always known about the notes, but just didn't give two shits about what the fuck was going around in their first and second year classes).

She hadn't used the spell since then, so she had to admit when the vision of jagged rock melted away into the image of a door, she was rather surprised.

"Cool." She grinned at her success.

The door was made of granite, a smooth and speckled stone that sparkled enchantingly under the light from Morgan's wand. There were no handles to be seen on the surface, only a hole in its center and a single straight line carved up the middle of it, cutting the hole in half. In cursive script above the strange hole it read:

"_Lo though who enter_

_Sacrifice is called"_

"What a fucking horror movie," Morgan growled, getting a good idea where the blood came from now. She had _serious_ issues with putting any part of her body into that opening. Her mind flashed back to a movie she once watched, where the male lead was faced with a similar situation. The guy got his fucking arm cut off.

"Calm down," she whispered to herself, brushing stray hair away from her face. "It's not like there's an arm laying on the ground or anything. There was barely any blood on the rock. It'll be fine, just put your hand in there and keep moving. C'mon, c'mon, _c'mon_!"

With a battle cry something akin to a mouse's indignant squeaks of terror, Morgan shoved her free hand into the opening in the door. Immediately, something smooth and sharp slid from the very tip of her middle finger to the bottom slope of her palm.

"Ouch," she muttered.

Bright red blood shot out the top and bottom of the hole, spreading along the line carved through the middle of the door. It creaked ominously, and suddenly the granite began to split.

Morgan withdrew her hand quickly, watching with bated breath as the rock was slowly dragged apart and swallowed by the left and right walls of the cave. Morgan slipped through the opening as soon as there was enough room to do so, clutching her injured hand to her chest and her wand between her teeth.

God, she just wanted to get out of here fast.

Morgan froze, her eyes darting around the cavernous hall she found herself in. It was shaped like a dome, had an extremely high ceiling, and was lined with torches.

None of those details were what caused her to freeze though. Rather, it was the sight of the disgruntled wizard twenty or so feet in front of her, guarding a darkened doorway.

"Who the bloody hell are you?"

The wizard was in his mid-thirties at least, bald, with a crooked nose and wide eyes. To his merit, he didn't look totally perturbed by her appearance, merely curious.

"Oh," Morgan remarked around her wand, "this isn't Best Buy."

"What the hell is Best Buy?"

"Not this," Morgan retrieved her wand from her mouth and let her bleeding hand fall limply to her side. "So I guess I'll just be leaving now. Have fun doing, err, whatever it is you're doing," she smiled charmingly and slowly took measured steps backwards.

"Do you think I'm fucking stupid?" The man withdrew his wand and kept it thrust in her direction.

Oh no.

"I made no such assumptions about your intelligence," Morgan defended weakly, still backtracking.

"Stop."

"Well, if you insist."

The man stalked towards her until there was a mere foot separating them. "Who are you and what are you doing here?" Dark eyes probed hers seriously, and Morgan felt his curiosity melt into something infinitely more dangerous.

It was time to put an age old ingenious escape plan to good use.

"Holy hell! What the shit is that!" she pointed a finger behind the wizard.

Some serious stuff must really be going down that tunnel, for the man actually turned his head around expectantly. Morgan took advantage accordingly.

"_Expelliarmus_!"

The red light shot from her wand and slammed into the wizard's elbow. His wand sailed from his hands in an elegant arc and he spun around to face her. Narrowed eyes burned holes into her head, "Goddamn it."

"That's not very nice," Morgan muttered, but the words died in her throat as the man launched at her. His body slammed into hers, pushing them into the rigged walls of the cavern. Morgan let out a sharp cry of pain as the pointed edges of rock tugged and pulled at her skin.

Desperately, she wrenched her arm upwards, a spell already on her tongue—

A crushing force gripped her wrist and smashed it against the wall. Her fingers automatically loosening, her eyes watering from the pain, she cried, twisting away from him, away, away, _away_!

His body anchored hers to the wall—her legs in-between his knees, impossible to dislodge, his shoulder pushing against her injured arm. He yanked back her wand hand…

…again it was forced into the rock. And oh _god_, this time something _cracked_, and pain was blooming before her eyes and all she could see was his fucking awful blue robes and he was pulling his arm back again and oh shit, this was going to hurt.

Her knees crumpled with the pain of the third impact, and the tears flew freely down her cheeks. He crushed her to the wall one last time, slamming her head back before finally stepping away.

She shook like a leaf in the wind, her shoulders shuddering and her eyes blurring. It was too much, too much pain, too much awareness, too much _everything_. Her world was exploding in extremities, and she only vaguely registered the man turning away from her to go look for his wand.

He didn't look the slightest bit unruffled. He was so efficient, so deadly. And god was she stupid to think she could ever do this.

Her vision swam, her wand was right there at her fucking feet, but she couldn't wield it and the bastard knew it.

Her broken hand unconsciously sought refuge to her chest while the bleeding one fumbled in her pocket. The pills…she just needed the fucking pills.

The bag spilled across her legs, and all the colorful capsules went tumbling along her stomach and thighs. Which color was for pain? Which for adrenaline?

Morgan's eyes were fluttering. She was going to pass out. Which fucking pill did what? Did it even matter?

A bloodied fist gripped at the pills, and while her coordination was shot, she still managed to grab four different sized cylinders, along with some pebbles. The fist slammed into her mouth and she desperately swallowed. Blood, dirt, magic—it all flew through her system and she gaped helplessly.

Her vision spiked, her heart sped up, the pain in her hands melted away, but it was too much happening too fast! Her breath came in short raspy pants, her mind fumbled with a single coordinated thought, and fuck—was someone touching her?

She hadn't realized her eyes were closed until someone was peeling them open.

A light flashing in front of her irises sent her mind into a frenzy of painful sensations.

"—a drug addict," someone was muttering. Cool hands were everywhere, roughly pushing her hair away and smoothing against her hot forehead. They drifted to her torso, experimentally pushing under her heart and _fuck_ did that hurt!

A strangled gasp flew from her lips, and she arched away from the hands. She couldn't think straight!

A hand flew to her wrist.

"Adrenaline drug," the voice said again, taking note of her increased heart rate. He shifted slightly to avoid the broken hand that darted forward to push him away. "Pain drug too." The man sighed unhappily and gazed at the pathetic girl collapsed before him. Whoever she was, she was extremely stupid.

At least ten pills littered the ground beside her body. What was she thinking, shoving those drugs down her mouth? She could go into cardiac arrest in seconds. It wasn't his problem, hell no it wasn't, but damn it she was just a kid.

Looked a lot like his daughter.

Damn it.

He pulled his wand out. He could detoxify her body. She'd be in a hell of a lot of pain afterwards, but it was better than having her foaming at the mouth. He rubbed the edge of his wand against his temple, an age-old habit he'd inherited from his old man, and grudgingly muttered the spell.

He knew it was working when she yelled out in pain again, thrashing along the ground and crying. He narrowed his eyes in concentration, it was taking a lot longer than he thought, and…what the fuck was that?

His eyes flew open and the girl cried out, her hands flying to her stomach as she keeled over and vomited the toxins from her system. Her eyes were still leaking tears.

There was something wrong, he thought, something terribly wrong with her. When he let his magic run through her body he had felt it…felt it what? Dissolving? The tissues making up her organs were so _thin_, as if they had been eaten away. And there! While watching her expel the contents of her stomach, he noticed pockets of blood coming up along with the pills.

"What the hell is happening to you?" he thought aloud, and not without a little apprehensive fear and disgust.

The girl's body contracted once more, and he crawled closer to her, grabbing her hair and carefully peeling it back from her face. She threw up nothing but blood this time, her whole body shuddering.

"Jesus Christ…"

That was when she twisted suddenly and her hand flew to his head. He was too slow to even have a chance of stopping the rock from driving into his left temple.

Damn it, he had left himself unguarded, just because she had been a young girl. Damn it! Such a rookie mistake.

His world faded to darkness.

* * *

Morgan was still shaking. It was impossible not to. Her whole body felt like it was caving in on itself, destroying itself.

_Time is fixing its mistakes._

She would laugh if it didn't hurt so badly.

It was only through pure will power that she was able to move from her crumpled position on the floor, shuffling her knees along until she was right beside the man that had inadvertently saved her life. She gave him a thankful pat on his unconscious head. "Sorry about that," she rasped, because her throat was still raw from screaming and her body was still spewing blood from her mouth.

Her death was nearer than ever. She could feel it in her very bones (funnily enough, she figured that they were the only thing that didn't hurt. But that was probably because they would be the last things to dissolve. Man, just look at that optimism!).

Morgan shuddered again. Her thrumming legs wouldn't be able to support her weight for a second. She was stuck like this—slowly rotting away—and there was nothing she could do about it.

Well, almost nothing.

Her eyes spied two shiny blue pills resting a few inches from her foot.

That guy had detoxified her, right? So taking those adrenaline pills wouldn't be like overdosing. All she needed was a little more strength to find Tom, and then that was it. She had no choice. Funny, how she appeared to be saying that phrase a lot lately.

She dry swallowed the bland pills and instantly felt better.

Her broken hand was still in an unbearable amount of pain, but the one that was sliced open had already begun to scab over. She would just have to hold her wand in that hand then. No big deal.

She rose to her feet, scooping up her wand awkwardly before nudging the unconscious man with her foot. She flipped him on his back and frowned unhappily when she spied his Grindelwald pin.

So he was a part of _that_ club.

Asshole.

Her body was still undeniably weak, but it was a weakness she could work with. She just had to keep pushing herself.

Morgan wobbled to the doorway the man had been guarding before she had burst in. And oh look, there was another cheery saying etched above it:

"_We dare you to enter_

_Nothing awaits but pain_

_Fear, indecision, destruction,_

_Will it be worth the gain?"_

"It goddamn fucking better be," Morgan growled. She clumsily held her wand and set out.

Once again the only light around became that which she supplied from her wand. The tunnel she traversed grew narrower as she continued to move along it, and soon Morgan found her breath become heavy with claustrophobia. Just when she thought she could no longer brave the lack of space, the tunnel opened up again.

This time, she was in a room with four pathways. Above each new tunnel there was a symbol engraved: the crests of the four houses of Hogwarts. Morgan strolled closer to the four entryways, noticing that the rock gave way to dirt. Kneeling besides the first tunnel, the one with the Hufflepuff insignia, she saw the imprint of shoes.

So Tom had come through this way. Which meant she was going to go through this way. She supposed it could be worse; he could have gone down the Slytherin tunnel. Her mind went over the words above the first tunnel. Fear, indecision, destruction.

Fun stuff.

Morgan held her wand tightly in her sliced hand, keeping her broken one tight to her withering chest. It was getting harder to breathe, and she coughed experimentally only to spit out more blood. So that was why each breath was a challenge. Blood was continually leaking into her lungs. Ew. Morgan squeezed her eyes shut and blundered onwards.

She noticed the change in the air first—originally dry and light, it became moist and heavy. Straining her ears against the silence, she caught onto the slight sound of water slapping against rock. Morgan hurried her pace, and swarmed out into the larger chamber with a small burst of speed.

The square cavern fairly resembled a public pool—a large body of water surrounded by a deck of carpentered stone. Across the water laid another doorway, and Morgan instinctually knew that it was her target. It all seemed fairly easy and simple. All she would have to do was skirt around the edges of the lake to reach the other side.

Apprehension was fast to fester itself in the pit of her stomach. If it looked too easy, that probably meant it wasn't.

Thankfully, the area was well lit by a species of algae that grew along the cavern walls and gave off an eerie green glow. It did nothing to make the chamber look less like a watery grave, but Morgan supposed she should be lucky that she could see two feet in front of her face.

She wearily took a few nimble steps across the slippery stone, until she approached the very edge of the water. There was no gradual incline bank of any kind, unlike what one would encounter at regular a lake, rather, the body of water stayed at a constant depth around its whole perimeter.

And from the sheer darkness of the water, Morgan guessed that it was very deep indeed. Suddenly, she got the feeling that she wouldn't be enjoying swimming anytime soon.

Morgan slotted her wand into her mouth, using her cut hand to keep her anchored to the cave's walls when she began her journey. The rocks were just as jagged and rough as they were in the previous cavern, so it wasn't necessarily hard to keep a good grip on the stone, but progress was still slow. The ledge of rock she traveled on was slippery, and more than once she thought she would simply slip and float down to the bottom of the goddamn lake.

Of course, that was assuming there weren't any nasty creatures in the water waiting to tear her to pieces.

Despite everything, Morgan was getting by fairly easy, which should have been her first indicator that shit was about to hit the fan because in all honestly, nothing has ever gone well for her.

Morgan knew something was wrong when she felt the algae trembling under her seeking fingers. It was all the warning she got before a shapeless black mass melted forth from it and reached for her with open arms.

It swallowed her in seconds.

* * *

She was in Hogwarts library, though she wasn't sure in what time. The Restricted Section didn't have a fence surrounding its perimeter which should have meant she was in 1944, but then why were the new wooden tables slotted along the back wall?

Morgan began worrying her bottom lip between her teeth in confusion when someone slipped an arm over her shoulder.

She spun to the left, looking to deck whoever was touching her, when she saw it was Tom. He was wearing his Hogwarts robes with a Head Boy badge stapled next to the Slytherin insignia and he was watching her strangely.

Well, maybe it was only strange because he was smiling.

His lips were tweaked upwards at the corners, and his hair was combed back, but not as neatly as usual. Dark eyes were crinkled slightly at their corners and a pale hand tugged on a stray piece of her hair.

That was the moment Morgan realized Tom was breathtaking, more so than ever before, because he was actually _happy_.

"Tom…?"

"You weren't listening to a thing I said, were you? You're always so helplessly lost in your head."

Morgan paused, took a breath, blinked, blinked again, and then asked, "Are you happy?"

Her companion looked mildly amused by her statement, and turned towards her more fully. One patronizing eyebrow rose and Tom wondered aloud why she was asking such a simpleminded question, one she already knew the answer to, no less.

"So…you are happy? But why?"

"You make me happy."

Morgan doubled over from sheer shock and Tom was immediately at her side, brushing hair back and whispering frightfully in her ear. Was she okay? Did he say something wrong?

He had just begun to pull her flush against him, still continuing his ministrations, when a voice interrupted them.

"Get away from her! Morgan, thank god!"

Morgan froze, her heart stuttering as she registered that someone was addressing her by her real name as opposed to 'Hume'. The voice was gruff, and vaguely familiar, and when she turned her head from Tom's robes she found Harry Potter near the entrance of the library.

He looked a right mess. With glasses askew, dark hair matted with blood, and swollen knuckles, he appeared to have fought his way to hell and back. His green eyes flashed with murderous intent.

"Morgan," he reached a hand towards her, "come on! Come with us. I need to kill him now."

Tom's eyes narrowed at the sight of Harry's raised wand and he instantly shifted Morgan into his arms. They drew around her, attaching her to his chest in a way that was protective, but not strategically correct.

"Harry Potter," Tom sneered, "I really don't know why you're here, but it would be better if you left."

Harry gave a hollow laugh. "I'm here to kill you, and save Morgan while I'm at it."

"Save her?" Tom actually looked affronted, "from who, exactly? Me? I would never hurt her. She's important to me."

Harry's eyes grew darker, "I don't need you to release her. I've got a clear enough shot from here. One killing curse and you're done. That is assuming, of course, that you don't make Morgan forfeit her life to save yours."

Turmoil raced through Tom's eyes, and all Morgan could think was why the hell he didn't draw his wand. But even that was pushed from her mind when Harry's lips began reciting the one curse you were guaranteed to never recover from.

"Wait!" she cried finally, twisting in Tom's arms so that she was facing the Boy Who Lived. "Don't, please, don't."

"What? Why?"

"Please, don't hurt Tom, you can't."

"He killed my parents, Morgan! He's killed so many people, how can you defend him!"

"Just don't!" Morgan found she had retrieved her own, and was pointing it at the supposed savior of the wizarding world. Her heart was pounding through the fabric of her shirt. "You can't hurt him. I won't let you."

Harry's features twisted into something desperate and hurt and dark, "Traitor," he whispered, and then suddenly he was surrounded by the members of the DA, her old headmaster, and the faces of the dead.

"Traitor," they cried out, "traitor."

Morgan fought back her tears, and drew comfort from the sole fact that the arms holding her tightened. Tom was leaning down, burying his face into her neck and telling her they didn't matter; she was with him and he cared about her and he would protect her. His tone steadily lost its composure as he promised that anyone who wronged her would suffer, and she could watch as they all writhed in agony for their misdeeds.

"You would protect her Tom?" Dumbledore said above the din. "Even though she betrayed you too? Even though she used you to get to the Founders Necklace, and planned on leaving you alone as soon as she got her hands on it?"

Morgan's knees buckled, "No, no, please no." But the damage was already done. The arms holding her began restraining her, and pain laced its way all the way down to her heart.

"Traitor," Tom voiced, and when she turned to face him she stumbled away in surprise. His face had melted into that of Voldemort, and she went tumbling into the book shelf.

It dissolved immediately upon their collision, as did the scene. She was in front of Hogwarts then, and the world was burning around her. Before her the bodies of the dead accumulated.

Harry. Dead.

Hermione. Dead.

Ron. Dead.

Fred. Dead.

George. Dead.

Dean. Dead.

Ginny. Dead.

Hannah. Dead.

Everyone…_dead_.

The Dark Lord came through the walls of flame, his robes billowing behind him. He towered over her, dangerous and psychotic, and leaned his warped face down towards her own. His breath smelled of decay and death, and when he whispered in her ear his malformed mouth caressed her cheek.

"I love you," he said.

"I hate you," he said.

And then he was grabbing her, swallowing her within his arms until she was merged with him and her screams were lost.

The darkness and pain was an impenetrable wall, and Morgan thought she was dying and she couldn't remember a single thing about where she was or how she got there. All she knew was that it hurt, and she wanted to get away _and anything was better than this!_

She couldn't feel her body. She was a floating consciousness, not a physical being. If this was death, it was boring and painful and suck-ish, and god did she ever hurt!

And then she felt it, the tug somewhere to her left, and the darkness was beginning to fade away. Awareness was fast approaching, and Morgan realized someone was grabbing her wrist and tugging.

Her eyes flew open and she remembered. She remembered the cave, her broken wrist, the man, the blood. She remembered it all.

And it was about bloody well time too, because she was just about to be eaten by a creature that looked like an enlarged and disgruntled salamander with serious dental problems.

Morgan let out a gasp of pain around her wand, and realized just how precarious her situation was. Her sliced hand was holding onto an outcropping rock for dear life while the wrinkled sea monster, who was two times her size, had its tongue securely wrapped around her broken wrist and was slowly trying to peel here away from the wall and right into its nice little mouth.

Aw _hell_ naw.

Adrenaline rushed through her veins, pounding in her ears as her fight or flight instincts kicked in.

_Fight_.

Acting fast, Morgan pulled her body back against the wall, easing the sea monster closer to the ledge before she anchored one foot against its grey head and released her grip from the rock.

The monster thrashed under her offensive strategy, and shrieked when her size seven shoe found its mark on its lidless eye. With one hand free, Morgan growled, spitting her wand from her mouth, catching it, aiming it down the monster's throat, and roaring at the top of her lungs, "_REDUCTO!"_

A wail not unlike a newborn child's cry shook the cavern, and suddenly the tongue grasping her broken hand fell limp, leaving Morgan without support. Her body slammed back into the wall, and with her good hand busy gripping her wand, she slipped, heading straight towards the murky depths of the water.

Her legs had already begun to sink into the lake by the time she rooted a fist into the wall. She yanked her body upwards with a strength she hadn't known she possessed, and sent sharp glances around the water.

Her original attacker was still screeching, but under the surface of the water Morgan saw its friends readily take its place.

_Now, for the flight._

"Fuck!" Caution be damned, Morgan set her feet and sprinted along the narrow edge. She threw blasting curses into the water wildly, slamming her shoulder straight into the wall when one of the sea monsters rammed its body against the side of the ledge. Her shoe caught, and she flew forward, smashing into the last corner before taking off again and finally tumbling away, straight into dark entryway she had seen across the lake when first entering the cavern.

Her cry of relief was stolen from her as her feet catch _again_, this time on the stairs hidden in the tunnel's darkness. She fell face-first into the stone steps that led upwards, and the air was smacked right out of her.

All she could spare was a wheezing groan of annoyance—because no, it wasn't enough that she had to get chased by reptiles on steroids, but she also had to trip over her fucking feet _twice_—and whined at the unfairness of the situation before remembering that sea monsters were still clamoring for her blood a mere four feet away.

She paled, retrieved her wand from where it had fallen, and picked herself up, managing to climb up the first three landings of steps before collapsing. The wrist the sea monster had been sampling wasn't looking so good. The skin was actually turning grey, and bone had been jabbed through the skin. She hadn't noticed the blood when she was fleeing for her life.

Oddly, she felt no pain. She supposed the adrenaline was still wreaking havoc on her system, and decided that was probably for the better when she began throwing up blood again.

But Jesus Christ! What the fuck had happened back there? She had been taken in by a nightmare, one that played upon her deepest, darkest fears.

She was terrified that, through her feelings, she had betrayed all those she held dear. She was afraid of being unable to complete her mission. But perhaps, most importantly, she was afraid of Tom himself.

Not because of what he could necessarily do, physically, but of what he could feel. She was deathly afraid that he could actually care for her, and even more terrified that he would find out she had been playing him from the start—biding her time to get the Founders Necklace to betray him. She didn't want him to hate her either.

The illusion had dangled her hopes in front of her face. It taunted her with the possibility of making Tom happy, of her continuing to live in 1944 to slowly weasel her way into his heart, before tearing those hopes to pieces.

And it had all felt so real! At least at the time. Now that she thought about it, she knew it was ridiculous that she fell for it. Please! Tom would never admit he cared for her, Dumbledore would never be so vindictive, and Harry Potter would never use the killing curse on Voldemort. He was too much of a hero boy to do that.

The elaborate illusion had been a set-up for the sea monsters. It had weaved a new world for her senses so that the predator could defeat her without a struggle. Quite the battle plan, actually, and damn well effective. She shivered at how close she had been to that monster's mouth.

With her back resting against the wall and her lighted wand held aloft, Morgan thought back once again to the nature of the illusion. It had played off of her fears. What had that carving above the first cavern said? 'Nothing awaits but pain, fear, indecision, destruction'?

Morgan blinked back the spots flashing before her eyes. Pain, fear, indecision, destruction. Four adjectives, four tunnels. Was it possible that each adjective stood for one of the tunnels? If that was the case, then in Hufflepuff's cavern she had already faced her fears. That still left pain, indecision, and destruction.

She groaned, weakness overcoming her body and mind. She still had three caverns to go. Awesome. Really.

She bit back a scowl and continued up the flight of dark stairs, doing her best not to trip. It wasn't long before the last stair landing leveled out and she was once again facing a doorway into another cave. This time, Ravenclaw. Ravenclaw's were known for their cleverness. Morgan could only hope that what she would face in the next room wouldn't involve physical recreation. No more fighting off monsters, please and thank you.

When Morgan stepped through the darkness and into the next room, she found it brightly lit and its walls smooth. It appeared as though someone had taken the time to sandpaper the rough cavern walls until they were virtually perfect. Or rather, someone had taken the time to think of a spell that would deliver similar results.

The cave was circular this time, brightly lit by a chandelier that floated high in the ceiling. Peering in through the entryway, Morgan found a wooden table waiting, and upon it, two vials. A wooden door was imbedded in the rock directly across from where she stood. Figuring that it would better to really just get this over with, she took cautious steps into the room.

Instantly, a wall of black fire blazed a path around the perimeter of the room at the same time deadly spikes grew from the walls and doors. Gulping, Morgan quickly approached the table to find a simple piece of parchment sitting next to the vials.

Morgan grasped it, and suddenly the room started to slowly close in on her.

"Wow. Just fucking great."

She hurriedly skimmed the parchment, knowing she was on a really tight schedule now that the walls were eager to crush her and everything.

'_Drink the blue vial_

_Survive the flames_

_Drink the purple vial_

_Receive immunity to impalement _

_To mix them_

_Is instant death'_

Morgan grinned. If she hadn't known that Tom had already come through here, she might have been pulling her hair out in indecision. But since she knew for a fact that someone had come through this way, and saw that neither of the vials had been drunk from, the answer to the puzzle was logical.

Don't drink any of them. Just walk through.

And holy fuck was she going to feel like a dumbass if she was wrong, but she really didn't have any time left, seeing as the walls were a couple of feet from crushing her. Feeling slightly giddy, Morgan pocketed the two vials, closed her eyes, and ran through the flames straight to the door. Her hand slipped through sharp stalactites that were as fake as the fire and she sidled straight through to the tunnel beyond.

Torches lit the next pathway, and Morgan tried to steady her breathing and calm her heart as she walked it. The strange thing about the tunnel was that it wasn't made of rock, it was made of dirt.

Morgan pondered on this, and the fact that she had just faced the 'indecision' trial in Ravenclaw's cave, before stopping outside another door. With her broken wrist still woefully clutched to her chest, Morgan registered Gryffindor's symbol before pushing it open.

It was chaos.

* * *

Matthew had been having a good day. Great day, actually. The Founders Necklace Cave had been surprisingly easy. The sea monsters in Hufflepuff's cavern? Piece of cake. The illusions that appeared? Even easier.

His partner, Anthony, was actually turning out to be semi-competent. He had successfully deduced the source of the illusions and released them, and singlehandedly solved Ravenclaw's clever little riddle.

Oh yes, it had been a good day.

Then of course, they had entered Gryffindor's cave, and things went to hell.

With the team of six wizards they had been assigned, he and Anthony had stormed the cavern to find it well lit and spacious. It was wide across, and a rickety wooden bridge linked one wall to the other. A door was visible on the other side of the bridge, and the only slightly disconcerting fact about the room was that the bridge held them over forty feet above the very solid and hard ground.

No matter! They could take it.

And he had actually believed that, until they all began trekking along the bridge and two fucking Chimeras flew from the fucking ceiling followed by a fucking goddamn Acromantula that now balanced quite fucking gracefully on the robes holding the fucking bridge up.

It was a flurry of spells and swearing from there. Three of his men had sprinted down to the middle of the bridge, working with one of the Chimeras, while Anthony and the other three men dealt with the second creature, and he was left with the giant fucking spider.

That was about the time he decided it was time to throw in the towel, and he gave a silent good riddance to the rest of his team before trying to double back and leave through the door from whence they came.

But then his grand escape had been stopped rather effectively by the giant spider, who decided he was going to plant himself in front of said door while calling Matthew, quite calmly and clearly, a coward, before lunging for him.

And then the door was shoved open, smacking the Acromantula in the ass and pushing it closer to Matthew. A teenager girl shimmied out from behind it and froze rather theatrically.

"Well, fuck," she said elegantly, and Matthew would know that voice anywhere because he had devoted four glasses of wine to trying to get into her under-aged pants.

It was the girl from Slughorn's party, Leah Hume, and at the moment she was looked really confused and really battered.

Anthony turned from his Chimera battle at the disturbance, and when his eyes locked on Leah his mouth gaped open in an unattractive fashion. That was before, of course, the Chimera's claws pretty much ripped his arm apart.

And did Matthew mention how it was _really_ time he left?

The Acromantula, who had said its name was Billy, darted for Matthew again, its pincers gliding through the air where his head had been seconds ago. Raising his wand, Matthew spat out a quick cutting charm, grimacing when it barely grazed one of the spider's legs and instead headed straight towards Leah.

The girl ducked just in time, glaring at him from underneath Billy and firing off a blasting charm. The eight-legged creature flew towards Matthew _again_, and he rolled away from it on his left shoulder.

"We have more visitors," Billy wheezed deeply, and he was suddenly turning around on flexible appendages to face Leah.

Her features crawled downwards into a frown, but the stupid kid actually waved and said hi before trying to cut the poor spider's head off.

No more pleasantries were exchanged after that.

Seeing the battle as a proper distraction, Matthew's eyes locked on the door across the bridge.

Oh yes. As long as everyone else distracted the crazy fucking Chimeras and Billy, he could definitely make it.

He took off at a sprint.

* * *

Morgan was at a disadvantage. She would be the first one to admit it. The Acromantula she was facing was three times her size, and looking at her a bit angrily. Well, she supposed she shouldn't have expected much, since she tried to cut his head off.

She slid under his reach, and long legs grazed her left arm as she pulled to the right to dodge. Taking advantage of Billy's exposed belly, Morgan shot a volley of purple flames from her wand, a curse she had copied from a Death Eater. It pretty much equaled lots of pain, and so she wasn't surprised when Billy reared back with a roar.

The large spider was still skimming backwards along the rope of the bridge when he was struck with a curse from behind, curtsey of the Chimera fighting wizard he had gotten too close to.

Bleeding profusely, Billy darted forward in a charge that was preceded by another cave-wracking scream. With her options severely limited, Morgan shoved her wand in her pocket and took a slight running start, making it seem like she was going to meet Billy halfway before sliding off the left side of the bridge.

The fingers of her good hand just barely gripped one of the wooden floorboards, stopping her descent as the Acromantula rammed himself straight into the wall of the cavern. The walls shook, the bridge shook, and Morgan's grasp shook.

And then a there was another round of cries, and a creature with three heads—one of a lion, a goat, and a dragon—a snake's tail, a bull's body, and set of strong wings, swept under her feet and snapped at her legs.

Forgoing her broken wrist for the time being (since she really didn't want to be eaten), Morgan desperately tried to heave her body back on the bridge. Her broken bones would have none of it though, and immediately her body convulsed, threatening to destroy the small grip she had.

Morgan squeezed her eyes shut, waiting to become Chimera chow, when all of a sudden it let out a wail of pain. A wizard with a mauled arm had broken away from his group, taking the time to sever one of the Chimera's head. It was quite the successful distraction. But unfortunately, not even the joy of seeing a screeching goat head arcing through the air could give her the strength to keep her grip, and her fingers slipped and it was most certainly the end.

Or not. Because of course the Grindelwald guy with the mauled arm _could_ throw himself over the bridge to catch her slipping arm. He grunted with the effort, grasping her tightly and smirking grimly. "What in the world are you doing here?"

And that slightly mocking and condescending tone was so familiar that Morgan's brow was puckered down in thought the second the bridge disappeared from underneath them.

* * *

Okay, Matthew would be the first to admit that people made mistakes, and that even he wasn't perfect.

How was he supposed to know that when he reached for the door at the other side of the cave that the bridge would suddenly dissolve under his very feet?

_I mean really, they should at least give you a warning._

_

* * *

_

The Grindelwald guy, who was awfully familiar, lurched over her when the bridge melted from existence. He hissed darkly, and they both reached for each other as the floor rushed up to meet them.

The man was maneuvering his wand, yelling a spell over and over again, but it wouldn't work, and Morgan was absolutely certain that _now_ they were going to die. She gripped the front of his black robes the moment they fell through the floor.

Another illusion.

Morgan only had a second to register that they were falling through the roof of Hufflepuff's cave before they hit the surface of the water.

The impact jarred her broken wrist with a pain like no other. She yelped, and water began flooding her mouth and she clawed her way to the surface, sputtering helplessly when she finally breached it.

The green glowing cave gave the water a spooky feeling, she noted, as she watched only three other people hit the surface after her. Hadn't there been eight before? Where had they gone?

The guy who saved her life was treading water next to her, scowling and muttering: "Why won't the Bubble-Charm work?" whilst ignoring his torn apart arm.

Shadows skimmed underneath Morgan's kicking feet, and she got a good idea where the rest of Grindelwald's men had gone. Somewhere off to her left, a severed arm floated to the surface. The water took on a slightly red tint.

Morgan continued coughing, blood spilling from her mouth as she desperately tried to keep afloat with only one hand in working condition.

"Anthony!" a voice cried from across the lake, "the exit and entrance tunnels have disappeared."

Morgan recognized Matthew's voice, but was still in the process of coughing, too busy to tell him off for being a coward.

Morgan supposed the bright side of the situation was that none of the Chimera's had followed them down, and neither had Billy. Always count your blessings.

When she had finally caught her breath, she looked around to confirm that there were no entrances or exits. Neither was there a stone ledge to clamber onto. Grindelwald's men were arguing about this when Morgan decided to intervene.

"We have to go down!" she hissed, freezing cold and tasting blood.

The one called Anthony, the one who saved her life, looked at her pensively before Matthew interrupted: "And by the way, what the fuck are you doing here?"

"Sight seeing," Morgan spat, and she splashed water in his general direction. Unfortunately, the water hit poor Anthony instead, and the drops caught onto something shiny hanging from his neck.

It gleamed in the light from the cave, black with five indents on its jewel surface. Morgan's mouth popped open. It was the jewel! The trinket she had recovered from the Chamber of Secrets all those weeks ago! Tom had taken it from her right before she was given detention by Dumbledore.

Her eyes were alight with recognition, and then fear. If Tom had been in possession of the trinket, and now he quite obviously wasn't, what did that mean?

Morgan forced those dangerous thoughts from her mind and simply did the first thing that came to mind: she lunged viciously for Anthony (which is really quite an exaggeration, since it took a little over twenty seconds to reach him, a lot of dog-paddling, and an exclamation of _"Gimme!"_ ).

Anthony headed off her attempts to jump him with his good arm, looking confused before his eyes landed on the gem hanging from his neck. "Oh," he muttered, and then he was reaching for his wand.

He was underestimating her, leaving himself wide open for attack when his only good hand darted to his pocket for his wand. Morgan accordingly took advantage, and smashed her head into his.

Several people yelled "What the fuck!" and several curses skimmed along the water's edge rather close to her, but Morgan was only focused on strangling Anthony. She rammed her shoulder into his mauled arm, gripped the trinket that hung from his neck during his pain induced struggled, and pulled sharply downwards.

Good news: it broke free of his neck.

Bad news: it evaded her seeking hand.

"Fuck," Morgan kicked off Anthony, while Matthew ordered his only surviving man to curse the shit out of her. Ignoring his cries, Morgan snagged her wand from her robes and dove under the water.

She casted a quick illuminating charm, not at all pleased by the sight of four sea monsters ripping apart Grindelwald's other men. Squinting, she caught sight of the gem through the carnage, and interestingly enough, a large stone alter in the middle of the lake.

Kicking desperately, Morgan gripped her wand in her mouth and reached her good hand out. Her fingers had just clutched themselves around the chain of the trinket when someone, quite literally, knocked the air out of her.

The well placed kick above her ribcage had her coughing, and Morgan curled in on herself, her fingers slipping from the gem as she spat out more blood. The action was unfortunately followed by the reflexive action of breathing in, and once more her lungs got to go swimming.

While her body instinctually began tearing its way to the surface, Morgan's fingers slipped around the wand that had fallen from her jaw and mouthed a slicing charm. Rather than aim it at the bastard wizard, she decided to toss it towards the sea monsters.

If she couldn't reach the jewel, then she was going to make it a lot fucking harder for that guy to get it.

She breached the surface of the water again, this time with black spots coloring her vision as she tried not to pass out and cough up a lung. She realized she was alone, and that everyone else was going after the jewel. Growling, Morgan dove back under.

It wasn't a pretty sight. Curses flew around her, striving to hold back the salamander fuckers while one man kicked and clawed his way to the jewel. Morgan aimed her wand at the man's back, the only wizard whose name she didn't know, and mouthed: _"Petrificus Totalus!"_

The man froze, and instantly a monster's tongue darted out and snagged him around the waist. Morgan fought the urge to doubt her actions, and instead snatched the black gem from the water. Guilt could always comes later.

She could tell Anthony and Matthew were confused as to whether or not they should keep the sea-fucks at bay, or if they should start trying to hex her. Morgan tried to give them as little opportunity to think on that as possible, for she darted straight to the alter.

An underwater call had her freezing for a second, and she saw that the sea monsters were all darting towards her.

Not good.

The first salamander creature slithered its tongue through the water. It snaked around her ankle and began pulling her downwards. But she was so close! Not to mention running out of air! Her hand darted to her pocket, and in a desperate attempt at survival, she smashed one of the vials from Ravenclaw's chamber against the creature's tongue.

Black flames exploded through the water, tearing through the monsters instantly. It seemed to only seek them out, ignoring her and Grindelwald's remaining men. Shrieks made the water almost unbearable to stay in, and though Morgan lungs were constricting, she made the last kick over to the stone block in the middle of the lake.

She didn't care where Anthony and Matthew were right now. Survival was the first thing on her mind, and right now surviving meant pushing the gem into the hole in the middle of the stone slab and twisting it until she couldn't anymore.

Morgan's intuition proved fruitful. Instantly, the rock was lifted and acted as a drain for the lake. Morgan was violently dragged through the dark tunnel in a wave of rushing water.

She couldn't hold back her need to breathe any longer. Her lungs filled with water, and this time, she did black out.

* * *

"—smart move. Saved our lives."

"—dumb luck…could have died…"

"—just grab it so we can get out of here."

"Just like that?"

"Yeah, just like fucking that. Oh wait! The girl's waking up. Grab the necklace and I'll take care of her."

Morgan's vision swam in front of her eyes, and she realized she was shivering violently. Blurriness almost made her miss the boots in front of her face until they were kicking her in the kidney.

Her body convulsed, and she began coughing again.

"Hello, gorgeous. Didn't expect to see you here, I'll tell you that."

Morgan registered that it was Matthew talking to her, the one who she spent Slughorn's Christmas party with, but couldn't do much about it besides clutch her side.

"I didn't hit you that hard, Leah," he said. He crouched before her and grabbed her shoulders, "Come on, on your feet." When she wavered dangerously, he smartly revised his statement, "Or knees, you know, whatever works."

So that's what Morgan did. She kneeled in her torn skirt on the soaking stone floor and threw up more blood.

Matthew wrinkled his nose, "Anthony, I think you missed some internal wounds," he said condescendingly. "I know you set her wrist and shit, but she's coughing up blood."

There was an annoyed sound from somewhere in the room.

Morgan waved a hand, "Don't worry," she said, "this actually happens quite a lot."

"Oh. I see." Matthew shifted so he was in front of her, and all that she could see. "Alright, so here it goes. You've been unconscious for a little over twenty minutes. In that time, we've made sure you were still breathing, fixed your wrist up a bit, and healed that nasty slice on your other hand. Understand?"

With her tangled hair framing her pale and ragged face, Morgan nodded. "So you haven't killed me. Which means you want something from me."

Matthew grinned delightedly, running a hand along the werewolf scars on the side of his face. "Brilliant! I have missed your company! Such a bright girl." His eyes darkened, "Of course I want something from you: information."

"About what?" she wheezed back.

"Who sent you, how you found out about this place, you know," he twirled a finger in the air, "the usual."

There was a shuffling sound near Matthew, and he looked up to spy Anthony. A mesmerized awe had taken over the man's eyes as his hands clutched something close to his chest. "Beautiful," he whispered.

Matthew saw the glint of the necklace and exhaled deeply. "Good, we got it. Now all we have to do is take care of the girl. What are we going to do with her? After we get the information out of her, of course."

At his partner's prompting, Anthony begrudgingly put the necklace in his pocket, giving Morgan a quick once-over. "Kill her?"

"Meh, maybe. I kind of like her."

"What do you want to do? Take her with us?"

"Uh. Fuck, I don't know. Maybe we should just cross that bridge when we come to it, right?"

"Sure."

"Right!" Matthew bent down again, gripping Morgan's face in his hands. "Alright, here it goes, I ask you a question and you answer, right? Then we can get out of here," he smiled, but it looked far from reassuring.

Morgan said: "Mrrughh" which really translated to: "Okay".

"First question: how are you?"

Morgan raised a disbelieving brow, and wavered from side to side on her knees. Matthew helped steady her, but continued to wait for her to answer. Morgan decided to. "M'fine. Don't really want to ever go swimming again, but fine. You?"

"Fantastic," Matthew answered, pleased she had asked. "Okay, question two: how did you find out about this place?"

"Hiking."

Matthew sighed. "Question three: who are you working for?"

"Batman."

"Who?"

"Batman."

This time, Anthony sighed and Matthew said, "You're really putting me out here."

"I'm feeling a bit put-out myself, actually."

"You're going to make me doing something I really don't want to do, mainly because I don't think I can handle any more screaming."

"Oh yes, you are most definitely getting the short-end of the stick, I mean all I have to do is get tortured, right?"

"Just tell me who you're working with, and how you really found this place."

Morgan sighed, her hands shaking, "Thanks, but no thanks."

"Very well. I must admire your loyalty, Miss Hume. It really is a shame; I _did_ like you."

"Glad to hear you already talking about me in the past-tense."

_"Crucio!"_

Morgan felt the pain crippling along her spine, hitching her breath and causing her to choke out weak cries of pain. Blood bubbled up from her lungs, and she desperately clutched at her stomach while she writhed on the floor. It was like being torn to pieces, and then sewed back up again, only to be burned afterwards. Somewhere in the back of her mind she was telling herself that she had faced far worse pain, but at the moment, that didn't seem to matter much.

By the time it was done, her voice was hoarse and she back to throwing up.

Matthew held her hair for her.

"I didn't like doing that anymore than you liked suffering through it. I'll ask you again: who do you work for and how did you find this place?"

"I politely decline to answer the question," Morgan choked, trying to wipe the body fluids from her face. Her hands were shaking so much that she missed.

Matthew winced, "Okay. Another round then, _cru—_"

"—_Avada Kedavra_."

Morgan blinked, and Matthew fell on top of her. The sound skin twisting and bones distorting met her ears, but all Morgan could do was stare at the face of the dead wizard. His body had knocked straight into hers, sending them colliding to the floor. And while Morgan had struggled to get up, he had remained still.

For some reason, she felt sad. His body was still warm, and she was reminded of the fragility of life. She only averted her eyes when she began coughing again, and spit more blood on the ground.

_I suspect I'll be joining you soon enough._

The darkness came for her again, and this time she did not resurface for a long time.


	22. Chapter TwentyOne

**A/N:** So this is definitely a lot later than I originally intended it to be! I guess that's because I've literally written this chapter five times, five different ways. And even now, I'm not sure I'm wholly satisfied with the product (I'm worried it skips around too much too fast). I'm much more excited for the next chapter, which will be titled **"Three Last Days"**. I'm actually really curious as to how many people are gonna wanna kill me after reading this, heh heh. All I can tell you to soothe any worries you have is this: the story **isn't** over yet, and I actually do know what I'm doing! Anyways, the next chapter is turning out to be a lot easier to write, thank god! And I also want to thank anyone who reads/faves/alerts/reviews! I absolutely adore reviews, they give me a lot of incentive to hurry my ass up.

Without further ado, the twenty-first chapter of our journey!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One: No Time to Spare**

They slammed into the ground, accompanied by a torrential flood of water. It threatened to invade his lungs, to steal the air from them and draw him into unconsciousness. Flames of pain licked at his left shoulder, dancing all the way down to his wrist. Even the slightest movement fed the inferno, causing him to bite out a groan of pain.

Beside him, someone was coughing. "Look sharp, eh Anthony?" the voice said scathingly, and Tom Riddle glanced upwards to see his partner on his feet.

He gave a noncommittal grunt in response, rising to his knees slowly. Blood ran down his arm in rivers, as it'd been doing ever since the Chimera took a swipe at him. The smart beast had chosen the exact moment he was distracted by Leah's arrival to strike, and his inattention cost him dearly.

Tom retrieved his wand from a nearby pile of mud and set to work on healing his injuries. His medical examination was cut short when he heard Matthew make a short sound of disappointment. "Oh no," he said, "I think she's dead."

He was on his feet instantly, taking long strides towards Matthew, who knelt beside Leah. Her skin was dead pale, her lips slightly blue. She wasn't breathing.

"Probably drowned," Matthew said.

Tom made a distinct noise of displeasure, falling to his knees near her head. Two fingers sought for a pulse on her neck, and he let his mouth twist upwards when he detected a very faint one. "Still alive," he replied.

"Not for long."

Tom ignored Matthew and set to work summoning the water from his fallen companion's lungs. A long stream of the liquid pooled from her mouth, dyed red with blood.

"Bloody hell," Matthew continued, "was our mission debrief misleading or what? '_Slight complications may arise'_ bullshit," he scoffed. "We lost _everyone_. Not exactly a normal day at the office, if you catch my drift." He trailed off, his next words spoken more to himself than his partner, "Better get paid well for this. Trisha will have my head if I don't pay her three months rent. Nearly talked my ear off last week—_women_!"

Tom ignored Matthew, choosing to focus on Leah. He pulled the wet sleeves of her sweater up, his brow furrowing after seeing the extent of the damage done to her wand-wrist. The bone was poking out of her skin.

Normally, setting bones was easy, but after hours of exposure...well, that was a different story. Riddle wasn't sure how well he could heal Leah. He hadn't been given much to work with. The skin around the injury was grey and falling to the ground in mutilated lumps. If he didn't work soon, he would have to amputate.

"Ouch," Matthew said helpfully, having returned to Tom's side to peek at his progress. "Can you heal that?"

"Not well," Tom admitted. He began waving his wand in a complex set of patterns, mumbling under his breath all the while. Matthew watched silently, nodding his approval when the bone of Leah's wrist retracted itself into her skin. New tissue bubbled up over the wound, and disfigured and twisted as it was, it served its purpose.

"It's not a permanent solution," Tom said. "She'll need to go see a proper healer later. The rest of her injuries do not look nearly as bad, though." And he was right. Besides from a few bruises and a deep gash on her other hand, Leah appeared perfectly healthy. If only she didn't look so frail and sickly…

"Don't suppose you'd heal me?"

"Heal you? Why Matthew, when were you even hurt? Did you trip and fall while trying to run out the back door?" Tom did nothing to hide the anger lacing his tone, recalling perfectly well how the older man had tried to leave their team to the mercy of the Chimeras and Acromantula.

Matthew was either oblivious to sarcasm or rather adept at ignoring it, for he replied: "Most likely. I think I twisted my ankle on the damn bridge."

"How unfortunate."

Matthew grinned, his lips stretched taut. The smile fell, however, when he gazed at his partner. "What are you doing?"

Tom followed Matthew's eyes, and found his hand tangled in Leah's hair, occasionally grazing her jaw. He snapped backwards immediately, stuffing both hands in his pockets and turning his attention to the room they resided in.

It was plain, boring really, like a cave one would find in the woods. The cavern was completely empty, except for a large stone pillar near the back that appeared to be glowing. The light was gold in color and ethereal in nature, stemming from the object the rock held.

Matthew crossed his arms, "That was a pretty smart move, the little witch did, saved our lives I should say." He kept his eyes trained on his partner's back, watching for a physical reaction.

Tom gave him none. "It was stupid. She almost died. There was no way of knowing whether or not that little maneuver would work. Dumb luck."

"It does not matter, I suppose. I think we found what we came for." Matthew gestured to the stone pillar. "Grab it, and let's get out of here."

"You want me to grab it?" Tom said disbelievingly, "Just like that? Shouldn't you be the one to check for possible curses, considering how you so skillfully managed to come out of our other skirmishes unscathed?"

Matthew glared. Hard. "I'm in charge here, so yeah, just like fucking that."

Tom fought back a sneer. No one ordered him to do anything, much less with such a disrespectful tone. If only the insolent bastard knew who he was. Tom would take pleasure in killing him when the time came.

The man was an idiot, anyways. He didn't even have the skills to pick out imposters. Matthew was so woefully detached from his partner, Anthony, that Tom had no trouble masquerading as him. The Polyjuice Potion wasn't going to last for much longer, though, so perhaps it was best to hurry up and leave the grounds.

"Oh wait! The girl's waking up. Grab the necklace and I'll take care of her."

Tom didn't reply, his eyes already drawn to the artifact piled amidst the rubble atop the pillar. Raw power pulsed from it, outlining the necklace in a way that made it seem surreal. As he ascended the block steps towards the Founders Necklace, he felt its power gradually sink into his skin.

When his eyes finally settled on the necklace his world ceased to spin. Everything melted away, until there was nothing but him and an astute awareness of the energy expanding outwards to cocoon him. An electrified feeling seared through his veins, making his whole body ache in a mixture of pain, fear, and excitement.

The lulling pull of the necklace was strong, so strong that Tom feared he was being completely consumed. He felt as if he only had moments left before he was ripped from his body, destroyed by what he had sought for so diligently.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears. His hand stretched forward, unconsciously seeking the power, unconsciously bringing him closer to madness. Closer, closer, closer, almost _there_…

A retching noise bounced against the cavern walls.

Gone.

An unpleasant pressure squeezed his heart, making it pump white hot rage into his veins. He had been _so_ close! So close that he could still feel the desire pooling in his stomach. How dare someone take that away from him?

His rage screamed retribution, and his wand was already in his hand when rationality took control. Thinking logically, he found that the unbounded energy had been too much for him to handle. He had been caught unawares by its dangerous seduction. He'd been flirting with death. The wand settled back in his pocket.

Shaking his head of the fog that had claimed his mind, Tom spied Leah crouched on her hands and knees, spewing blood from her mouth. He gritted his teeth and discovered the sight uneasy to watch.

Turning his head, Tom reached for the necklace again, more aware of its potentially deadly appeal. With his mental shields firmly in place, he found his mind thankfully clear. He clutched the glowing item to his chest, unable to stop himself from admiring its raw energy and power.

He reached Matthew and Leah before controlling the recognizable admiration burning in his eye, and whispered an appreciative word: "Beautiful". He placed the Founders Necklace in his pocket, and turned his attention to Leah.

Decidedly less blue in the face, the girl was a jumbled mess of dirt, blood, and bruises—an unattractive combination. Her jaw was locked, though, and her shoulders tense.

She didn't look surprised or uncomfortable when they mentioned her death would be a very plausible way to end the evening. And indeed, when Matthew began questioning Leah, she lied with her best poker face. She was…expectant, or resigned at the very least, to her fate.

But Tom had seen expectation and resignation in others before, and he knew how easily a little pain could crumble the most honorable man's will. From the way Leah's thin body shook, and her hands trembled, he guessed that she was in quite a bit of pain already, and wondered how long she would keep quiet and resist divulging information.

Matthew gave her one last chance to answer his questions, one last chance to avoid a most unpleasant experience.

Leah wheezed, "No thanks," and crumbled further into the ground when Matthew's torture curse collided with her chest.

Screams echoed throughout the cave, bouncing along the rocky walls. Tom was used to such cries, but couldn't help feeling a bit sick listening to them come from Leah's mouth. To distract himself, he wondered about her sudden appearance.

They had fought before leaving Hogwarts. She was furious at him for the manipulative steps he took to receive her assistance in distracting Matthew. He'd only been expectant of her fury, but not of all the words she'd thrown at him during their confrontation in the Room of Requirement.

_"Why didn't you trust me enough to _ask_?"_she'd shouted, or something close to that.

The words had taken him by surprise. He'd never even consider being truthful in his pursuit of gaining her help, and now realized it was because he _couldn't_ trust her. Trusting _anyone_ had become a taboo practice, and he was more than less inclined to break it for someone who was dishonest herself.

Leah wanted them to be equals. She believed that if he stopped building up walls of mistrust and simply _let her in_, than their inequality would be dissolved. But it was much more complicated than that. If anything, indulging Leah's requests would only tip the scales even further in her direction. Leah was surprisingly well informed about his past, while he was kept in the dark about hers. His secrets were the only leverage he held against her. Keeping them was the only way to maintain the balance.

Tom couldn't completely repress the resentment he felt about how little power he held in their relationship. _She_ was the one who had sworn some dark oath of loyalty to _him_. He should be in total control, and confident of this power. Instead, he stood around questioning just _who_ held a greater stake against _whom_. It was a novel experience, and an unwelcomed one.

His anger and nervousness at this revelation was outshined by the curiosity he harbored for the circumstances surrounding Leah's arrival. When she hadn't shown up at the designated spot at the designated time, he'd just assumed she was out. He had felt slightly pained at the realization that her absence meant he would have to erase her memory. But it was an unavoidable consequence. She knew too much of his actions and plans, she would have to be silenced one way or another.

Such an event would mark the end of their rocky relationship. When he erased her memory, he would sneak a peek into it as well, satisfying the intoxicating curiosity he felt. Without the mystery, there would no longer be a reason to stay around her.

It was because of this, he realized, that he dreaded discovering her secrets. He desperately wanted to know what she knew, and how, but at the same time he wasn't sure he was ready to destroy the one excuse he had to see her.

It was frustrating to think about, he decided as Leah's screams finally died. It had always been his quest for knowledge that drew him to her, but perhaps something else kept him at her heels. There _had_ to be, for there was no other reason for him to loathe the thought of letting her go. Was it physical attraction? He certainly lusted after her to an extent, but he'd felt lust before, and it was nowhere near as all-consuming as it was now. No, there was something more, a combination of things impossible to name, though the end result was the same. He wanted _her_ with _him_.

This was especially dissatisfying, because the same didn't hold true for Leah. She was his unwilling companion, bound to him by dark magic. And even though the bind would stay intact after he found what she was hiding, it wouldn't be the same.

Their relationship had been defined by business—he needed to reveal her secrets, she needed the Founders Necklace. Tom wanted something _more_ to define their interactions. He didn't want her to come to him because some mark forced her to, he didn't want to seek her out only to try and batter down her mental defenses.

It was the strangest thing in the world, but Tom found he anticipated the day when he and Leah became _true_ equals. It would be the day she told him everything he would ever want to know about her, and the day when he finally stopped throwing up smokescreens to distract her from his true intentions. And on this day, the one thing that tied them together would be broken, and he was more than willing to create something else to keep her with him, because he _liked_ her, and he _wanted_ her, and he believed he was finally ready to accept this fact.

_But why was she here?_

Matthew sighed and gathered Leah's wet hair into one hand, holding it away from her face as she choked blood from her lungs. Catching Tom's gaze from over her head, he shrugged. "She won't be able to handle more," he admitted, "if this goes on for much longer, she'll die."

Leah didn't appear to hear him.

Tom worked to keep his face indifferent, but it was turning out to be very difficult.

"I didn't like doing that anymore than you liked suffering through it. I'll ask you again: who do you work for and how did you find this place?" Matthew directed his slightly abashed tone towards their captive.

Leah continued shuddering, having a hard time getting control of her body. The torture curse was one of—if not _the_—most painful spells to endure, so it was understandable that her body was having a hard time obeying its commands.

Tom's hand clenched tightly around Anthony's wand in his pocket. He was saving it to kill Matthew with, as it was better to use a wand other than his own. Now was as good a time as any other to get rid of the man who had served his purpose, but for some reason, Tom held back.

He wanted to see if Leah had any sense of self-preservation. After suffering through an Unforgivable like that, it was expected of her to break down and sob for her life.

"I politely decline to answer the question," Leah hacked, trying to wipe the blood from her chin. She missed.

Tom scowled. Did she have any idea that another round of torture would kill her? End her existence? Who was so wholly important that she needed to protect them with her life?

"Okay. Another round then, _cru_—"

"—_Avada Kedavra_."

Tom said the killing spell lazily, watching impassively as it met its mark somewhere near Matthew's ribs. It sent him sprawling straight into Leah, dead, as they were both brought to the muddy cavern floor. Just in time, too, for seconds later Tom doubled over in pain as the Polyjuice Potion wore off, shrinking his skin and bones and readjusting them to their original size and shape.

With very little respect, he kicked Matthew's dead body off of Leah, making sure it landed face first in the mud. He threw Anthony's wand next to the body, content with the fact that all who knew of his involvement were dead.

Thankful for the glowing plant-life stuck to the cave walls, Tom kneeled next to Leah's unconscious body, reassuring himself that she was alive when he checked her pulse. He anchored her body against his chest and retrieved a bottled Blood-Replenishing Potion from his pocket.

Gently, he tipped Leah's head back and set the edge of the bottle to her lips. He let a generous amount seep pass them, and held her mouth and nose closed. He rubbed her neck to help ease the concoction down her throat.

Dead white skin turned slightly pink, though replacing the blood she had lost did nothing for the cold. Now in a more stable condition, Leah's body shook with shivers. Tom frowned at the blood stained skin of her chin. Something was most definitely wrong with her organs, but he wasn't sure he had the medical skill required to help her.

He spent his time learning how to make people suffer, not heal them. If Tom wanted her to live, he would have to contact a healer, one who was discreet. He had someone in mind.

But for now, all Leah had was him, and he would fight to keep her alive. He eased the thick cloak off his shoulders, wrapping it tightly around her body before casting a levitation spell. There was a tunnel behind the stone pillar where he had discovered the Founders Necklace. If there was an exit out of this labyrinth, it was there.

Tom followed the steep incline of the tunnel. He'd been walking for a little over ten minutes, twisting and turning with the corridor, when he finally caught sight of the moonlit exit. He slowly eased Leah's body in front of him, and walked away from the dark cave until they hit the edge of the forest. It was only then that he reached the end of the Anti-Apparition wards.

He completed a Side-Along Apparition that left him and Leah in the room he rented at the Leaky Cauldron. It was small, with only one bed, a fireplace nestled into the wall to the left of the door, and a dresser situated besides the headboard of the bed. There was a small door to the right of the entrance, and that led to the equally small bathroom.

Tom quickly stole the thick cloak from around Leah's shoulders and spread it like a blanket on the floor, a safe distance away from the fireplace. This done, he situated Leah's body atop the makeshift bedding and started a small fire to keep her warm.

Crouching before her, he observed her dirty clothes. He casted a quick cleaning and drying charm, and then set to work on removing her shoes. It was when this endeavor was almost complete that he felt how feverish her skin had become.

He could probably charm the sickness away, but found he was more inclined to go about things the Muggle way, for once.

With a meticulousness he was known for, Tom's fingers skimmed the bottom of Leah's thick blue sweater. He grasped its edges and gently worked it over her arms, shoulders, and head.

This revealed a plain white button down that he removed more slowly. Each undone button exposed another inch of tantalizing skin, until at last he was staring at a bare torso, clad with only one necessary undergarment.

Something urged his hand forwards, and he found his fingers barely skimming over her cheek and jaw before they were drawn downwards. Along the slope of her neck, over the curve of one breast, and across the scarred tissue of her abdomen, Tom continued his exploration of her body with fascinated and dark eyes.

Now that he'd acknowledge his longing for her in the cave—accepted that he wanted her for much more and much longer than originally intended—it was hard to keep his hands to himself. The only thing harder was to recognize that Leah had already rejected his advances.

Her rejection hadn't bothered him much at the time. Sure, he'd been angry and confused and frustrated, but it'd been easy to direct those emotions elsewhere, once he convinced himself he only desired her body. And honestly, it had never been hard for Tom Riddle to get a lady to turn her attention to him. But now that he realized he craved _all_ of her, and wanted the satisfaction of having her accept and ache for his contact as much as he did hers, her dismissal of him was like a kick to the stomach.

A thunderous scowl broke across his face, and Tom worked slightly faster. He slid her dark skirt down her ridiculously small hips and off her legs, exposing the stockings underneath. He peeled back these tights next; unable to completely suppress the pure frustration he felt when the body-hugging material required a lot of handling to remove.

Every brush of skin against skin set his blood on fire, amplified a million times over when he decided to carry, rather than levitate, her to the bed. He was a masochist, apparently.

She settled against the blankets easily enough, and when he released her completely from his grasp, she burrowed her head in his pillow and inhaled deeply. It made him feel slightly better.

Pausing over her coiled form, he brushed the wet hair over her shoulder, pushing it back on the pillow. Her bare neck glared startlingly white in the moonlight, and Tom could just barely make out long lashes that flirted with high cheek bones. Deciding to send logical thinking on a short vacation, he leaned down until his nose bumped her jaw. Her skin was cold and sticky with sweat, a symptom of her feverish state. He settled his lips over her pulse and applied little pressure, a thank-you to the beating heart that kept her alive.

After, he took a very, very cold shower.

* * *

When Morgan awoke, it was with a great deal of coughing and pain. One minute she was deliriously close to that wonderful interlude between awareness and unawareness, and the next her body was in a whirl of motion. She was bent at the waist, a hand clamped tightly around her mouth, and her chest heaving so terribly that she thought she would fall off the bed she rested in.

When she drew her hand away, it was wet with blood. It wasn't a surprising sight, but still woefully depressing.

Glancing towards the chest of drawers next to her, she found three bottles of different potions resting atop a piece of parchment. Curious, she stretched a sore arm out to retrieve the items.

The parchment was a hastily written note. It explained that one potion was a Blood-Replenishing, the next a Cough potion, and the last a Strengthening Solution. The rest of the words explained she was resting in a hotel room at the Leaky Cauldron, and suggested she stay put. It was signed 'Tom Marvolo Riddle'.

Morgan was significantly cheered when she read this, for she would rather Tom Riddle undress her as opposed to some stranger. It also meant that Tom, wherever the hell he'd been, had made it out of the cave alive. Content, she rubbed at her eyes and discovered her previously broken wrist strained painfully at the movement. It had been healed, but not very well. Swell.

Shaky legs sought purchase against the aging floorboards as Morgan's desire to get clean outweighed any of her body's other needs, including the need for the three potions.

She was forced to use the bed as a crutch on the way to the bathroom, because apparently, her legs had adopted the horrible habit of simply ceasing to work at rather frequent intervals.

The sight of her naked body made her want to gag. She was so _thin_! Her ribs and collarbone were beginning to jut from her skin, and she was pretty sure she had no muscle to speak of anymore. Lips puckered back at her from the reflection, and she turned on the water before she could grow anymore distressed. The temperature of the water was allowed to increase steadily, until steam flooded the bathroom—from past experiences, Morgan had learned hot water was best for scrubbing the grime off your skin until it was raw.

The blood washed from her body easily enough, but Morgan still felt…dirty? Soiled? It was a hard emotion to name. Did causing someone's death, like she had down in the cave, always leave you so…_hopeless_—so filled with the desire to get clean, but left with the inability to do so?

Morgan didn't understand why it was bothering her so much. She'd contemplated killing people before, had even casted a successful killing curse on Voldemort (wasn't her fault it missed). Why was it different this time? Why was thinking about the act, trying to commit the act, so, so, _so_, different than actually _doing_ it?

For all the time she spent in the small shower, she couldn't figure it out. So Morgan did what she did best—she locked the disturbing feeling in a box and threw away the key. If she could care about a future psychopath and pretend it was okay, she could certainly put her compartmentalization skills to work and separate her feelings of self-loathing from her memory of the killing. In fact, while she was at it, she might as well lock away all the images of bloodied water and floating limbs and death.

Lock them away and _burn_ the key.

Besides, the dude had been a Grindelwald lackey. He wouldn't have hesitated to kill her, right? Right.

Morgan gave herself a little mental pat on the back and willed her legs to get her out of the shower. She patted herself dry with a towel, taking exceptional care around her abdomen and chest area, and staggered out to the dingy room she had woken up in.

Thankfully, the dresser was within arms' length of the bed, so Morgan was able to sit down and riffle through them without worrying if her knees would give out. The first drawer held a couple pairs of trousers and some button down shirts. She smiled slightly—they were most definitely Tom's.

Moving on, she found her clothes cleaned and dry hiding in the second drawer. Her wand was bundled between her sweater, and she wasted no time putting off the inevitable—actually getting dressed.

The nasty little habit her legs had adopted seemed to spread to her arms as well, so maneuvering her shirt and sweater on took more time than strictly necessary. But that struggle was nothing compared to the fight against gravity she endured whilst trying to slide her skirt up around her waist.

Finally more-or-less dressed and clean, she popped the corks on all three potion bottles and downed them in quick succession. They tasted terrible, as potions tend to, but she couldn't deny how much better she felt. Energy and small amounts of strength burst into her arms and legs, and her head no longer felt sluggish.

It was a breath of fresh air, especially considering she was able to breathe without coughing every ten seconds or so.

How could Tom expect her to stay inside and rest now?

With a small smile, she went back to the drawer that held Tom's clothes. She grabbed one of his pristine shirts and buried her face in it. The smell of his cologne flooded her senses. It was a sharp scent, ordinarily musky like most cologne, but somewhat more…subtly sweet, like citrus. Long story short, Morgan decided it was downright _alluring_.

She almost replaced her shirt with Tom's, a mischievous smirk bringing her lips to life, before pausing to consider the unpleasant implications that would arise. With one last farewell sniff, she left the shirt in its former residence and continued her perusal of the other drawers.

The last one held a swath of dark fabric, that when fully withdrawn, revealed itself to be a thick, black cloak. Phantom fingers of pain caressed her shoulder while she acknowledged there was something very familiar about the clothing.

She spread the cloak on the bed, and her eyes were immediately drawn to the rips that nearly destroyed the entire left side of it. Suddenly, the remembrance of pain in her shoulder made more sense.

Morgan had last seen the cloak on one of Grindelwald's me: Anthony. His whole entire shoulder had been ripped apart, but he'd still taken the time to try and save her from falling off the bridge in Gryffindor's cave. Not that it had mattered in the long run, for the entire thing disappeared, sending them into the murky, watery depths of Hufflepuff's cave. He'd been the guy she wrestled the black gem away from, the same gem she found in the Chamber of Secrets earlier in the year, the one she surrendered to Tom.

A frown chased away the last vestiges of her good humor. Why did Tom have Anthony's cloak? And why did Anthony have Tom's gem?

Fingers chased along the torn seams of the fabric as Morgan contemplated the situation. The answer was blaringly obvious, screaming curse words in her face, but she didn't want to acknowledge it unless she was sure.

So, she looked at the facts.

She'd given Tom the black gem she discovered in the statue of Salazar Slytherin. To her knowledge, he'd kept the trinket under his watchful eye.

Weeks earlier, Tom had mentioned that he already had a plan to steal the Founders Necklace, the details of which he didn't find it prudent for her to know.

Matthew had been a guest at Slughorn's Christmas Party. They spoke throughout most of the night while she observed Tom entertaining a decidedly less guarded Anthony—the partner Matthew mentioned despising.

Tom had been brewing a potion in the Room of Requirement, one she wasn't supposed to know anything about.

When the facts were lined up like that, they all pointed to a solution that was impossible to ignore, one that fit too well to consider it a coincidence. Tom had Anthony's cloak, and Anthony had Tom's gem, because Tom _was_ Anthony.

Morgan was supposed to distract Matthew at the Christmas Party so Tom could snag a bit of Anthony's DNA to use for a Polyjuice Potion, the concoction he'd been brewing in the Room of Requirement. Tom's plan to steal the Founders Necklace had been to masquerade as a member of the team Grindelwald sent to retrieve the item.

_Damn._

"What an asshole," Morgan sniffed unhappily, telling herself that no, those weren't tears building behind her eyes, but a side-effect of the potions she'd taken. "Would it kill you to tell me the truth for once? To _not_ lie?"

She supposed so. Honestly, what was their relationship really, if not one manipulation piled atop another? They brought out the worst in each other. He manipulated her because he didn't trust her (didn't trust _anyone_, is more like it), and she was constantly jeopardizing her mission for a silly little _crush_!

Though it wasn't the manipulation that caused her hands to shake with fury, it was the fact that the idiot had sat there while she was getting tortured! She'd gone down that stupid cave for him, because she was worried for him, and how does he repay such fucking consideration? He watches her get tortured.

Morgan didn't know why it hurt so much. It wasn't like she was surprised—Voldemort got off torturing anything that _breathed_, and spent Sunday afternoons kicking puppies at his leisure. The guy was the epitome of all evil, and you don't get to that level of Evil Asshole without a little practice first. So of course it was logical that Tom wasn't bothered by the screams of tortured innocents.

But _she_, she wasn't a tortured innocent. She was supposed to be his friend. Friends don't let friends get the life kicked out of them (literally speaking), and she figured that was why her heart hurt so much.

While Morgan thought they were friends, while she _cared_ for Tom, he obviously didn't give a shit about her. The feeling was fairly reminiscent of getting kicked in the face—it made her head hurt and caused her face to scrunch up in an unpleasant manner.

Well, then, if Tom didn't care about her, there really wasn't a reason to dawdle in the past, was there? No, none at all. She'd get the Time Turner dust, the slip of paper with Snape's spell, and nab the necklace. Then, she'd leave.

It was slightly ironic, actually, that in Hufflepuff's cave she discovered one of her greatest fears was to have Tom Riddle either hate or love her. It turned out that Tom felt neither of those things for her—he felt _nothing_ for her. It was better this way, then, right?

Morgan didn't know.

It still hurt, more than she ever wanted to acknowledge.

* * *

He shouldn't have been surprised to find her inhabiting the table hidden in the corner shadows of the Leaky Cauldron. Leah rarely took his words seriously, and often went out of her way to disobey him.

So no, Tom wasn't surprised to see her twirling her finger around a glass of water with a carefully contorted blank face. She didn't so much as glance in his direction when he took the seat opposite her, leaning back in his chair.

"Good evening, Leah," he said neutrally.

Her mouth opened, closed. Her eyes flitted to the rim of her glass, then to the table, and then the glass again. She swallowed a sigh, straightened and slumped her shoulders, locked her fingers together.

Oh. So she figured out his deception.

Feeling his intent gaze on her, Leah said to her cup of water, "Ah."

Pausing to consider a particularly riveting smudge of discolored wood on the table, Leah offered Tom a nice profile of her prominent cheekbones. He could just spy dark lashes fluttering against pale skin, and was instantly reminded of the previous night when he'd pressed a soft kiss to her neck.

It was this memory that had him reaching across the table, his hands closing around the ones that held her cup of water steady. "Leah," he whispered, his voice an octave lower.

Her brow lifted in surprise, and he saw her blue eyes settle on their joined hands before finally lifting to his stare. "Tom," her hoarse voice replied. She gave her hand an experimental tug. He released it with thinly veiled reluctance.

"Funny," he remarked, "I could have sworn I asked you to stay in the room."

Leah considered him, displeasure slowly leaking past her indifferent façade. "Funny, I could have sworn I asked you to help me if someone decided they wanted to _crucio_ me to their heart's desire. Oh no, I didn't ask that of you? Silly me, I must have figured it to be a well known fact: friends don't let friends get tortured to a near-death pulp. _Jerk_!"

At some point during her hushed tirade, Leah had leaned away from her seat and across the table, trying to convey as much anger as possible without resorting to bodily harm.

Tom smirked lightly, because he was fairly certain no one else he knew would ever call him a jerk to his face, and was rewarded with an unbecoming snarl.

"You're making a scene," he pointed out.

"Oh fuck you," she said. She returned to her seat, though, continued to glower in his direction.

There was a long period of silence, during which Tom observed Leah with open interest, and she tried in vain to pretend she wasn't watching him watch her. Her hand began to fidget with her water glass again.

Content that he'd flustered her enough, Tom broke the silence. "How are you feeling? Did you take the potions I left for you?" She was certainly looking better. Her dark hair was thick and curled, piled back in a messy bun. The delicious color had returned to her cheeks (partly due to the smoky heat of the pub, he would guess), and her eyes were bright and alive.

Leah slumped in her seat, "Physically? Fine. Emotionally—drained, annoyed, I don't know. I guess—I mean, this isn't surprising or anything but it's just that—oh goddamn it."

Curious now, Tom prompted her, "Start from the beginning."

She snorted, her eyes weeping concentration as she carefully selected her next words. "I can't, not now, probably not ever. All I can really say is this: I know who you are Tom Marvolo Riddle, and I should have expected nothing but betrayal from you. Expected as it was, it still hurt—_hurts_, even now."

"I see," Tom replied, decidedly less warm. All the mirth and excitement drained from his features, and he was once again bathed in a cold fury he'd only experienced a few times in his life.

"All you ever do is cause hurt," she continued. "You're not good for me Tom."

He was on his feet in a second, and in the next, he was dragging Leah into the corner with him. They were inches apart, their noses almost touching and his eyes bleeding red. "You may be right about that, Leah, but you should consider all the pain _you've_ caused before you go around accusing others."

Leah sucked in a sharp breath through her nose, her hands locked into the fabric of his shirt. Just feeling her that close was a test of self-restraint, and Tom pushed their boundaries even further. He placed his hands on the wall on either side of her head, and bent low to whisper in her ear, "I respect that you don't want me, I've accepted this, but don't you dare go disregarding everything I have done to keep you safe and alive."

And then he was pulling away, straightening his tie and dropping a slip of parchment on the table. He didn't look back.

* * *

Violetta Fanding scrubbed the tears from her eyes and swiped her wand along the edge of her jaw, spelling away the swollen red skin. The days leading up to Christmas were always the most unsettling times for her father—he was often reminded of her mother. Violent outbursts were a guarantee, as were random bouts of destruction. It was a tiring time for the eldest child of the family.

Sighing, Violetta dropped to her bed, hands clasped on knees. Wandering eyes caught sight of her friend's trunk, carelessly tucked into the corner by the night stand, and she smiled. It had already been a little over two days since she'd last seen or heard from Leah, and she was beginning to miss her.

And alright, maybe she was a _little_ worried.

She was busy wondering about her friend when there was a knock at the door, and the pitter-patter of small feet pounding against carpet signaled that her younger sister, Marti, was answering it.

"Oh, it's you, Miss Leah!" Marti screeched happily.

Violetta gave a small smirk; speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

She met the duo in the hall. Marti was wearing her holiday outfit consisting of a blue skirt and white blouse, her hair done up in high pigtails. The blue fabric brought out the color of her companion's eyes.

Leah was just as poorly poised as ever, though her skin had adopted a deathly pale pallor. She looked sick, with bruised skin under her eyes and unsteady limbs. Nonetheless, the young woman gave a tremendous smile and went to embrace Violetta in a swift hug.

Violetta was given just a second to reflect on how fragile and thin her friend had become before the girl was pulling away again, swiftly. "How have you been, Violetta?" she asked in a raspy voice.

The blond witch ignored the shivers that rode down her spine at the sound. "My time has been mostly spent taking care of the house and cleaning up after the children, nothing apart from the usual." She gave her younger sister a pointed glance, which let Marti know she had overstayed her welcome at Violetta's reunion with her friend. The child carefully strolled back to the kitchen, where she would undoubtedly go searching through the cabinets for cookies.

"Ah," Leah answered Violetta, "is your dad still an asshole?" The cheeky grin chased away any meanness the comment brought.

Even so, Violetta felt the need to defend her father. "He's a good man."

"I've heard that one before," Leah responded, before throwing her arms up in surrender, "I know, I know. I apologize."

Violetta smiled, "It is very good to see you again, my friend. What has the past two days seen you doing?"

"A little bit of this, a little bit of that," Leah said. "I actually came for my luggage."

"Ah, it is right where you left it." Violetta led her friend back to the room they had once shared, pointing to the trunk near the nightstand. "I'll trust you to get your things settled, I have a dinner to cook."

Violetta wondered why her friend's eye brightened at the mention of being left alone, though thought it safer not to comment.

* * *

Violetta closed the door behind her, leaving Morgan in the room by herself. She wasted no time in hauling the trunk to the floor near the bed, and ripped open the lid. Her hands were shaking again, and if that was because Tom's potions were wearing off or because she was still startled by his actions at the pub, she couldn't tell.

All she knew was that she was overcome with the desire to do anything in her power to quicken her return journey home. The faster she retrieved the Time Turner sand and found the spell needed, the faster she could steal the necklace and go back to the time she belonged in.

Morgan pawed through piles of clothing, candy wrappers, trinkets, and the file consisting of the information for her mission. She hurriedly pushed items aside, tore others inside out, and threw others away before finally resorting to a simple summoning spell.

None of it worked. None of it changed the fact that the small black silk bag she'd traveled back in time with was missing. It had the Time-Turner sand in it, _and_ the slip of paper with the spell she needed.

Morgan leaned against the end of the bed, straining herself with the effort it took to try and remember her trip through time. There had been pain, the stretching of bones, the black silk bag in her hand…oh _no_.

_Everything spun around her and she tried to tuck her elbows in, gasping as the black bag with the time sand seemed to slip further and further from her grasp. She was so dizzy. An icy feeling was building in the pit of her stomach and spots flashed before her eyes. Nothing mattered anymore, not the time sand or the stupid Founders Necklace. It felt like she was being stretched to disgusting lengths, her bones cracking with the stress. It was a pain worse than dying; it was like nothing she ever felt before it was—_

_Over._

Of course! She bit back a sneer. The bag had been stolen from her grasp somewhere in time, and she'd forgotten all about it in the face of being discovered by Tom Riddle in his dorm.

There was no Time-Turned sand anymore. No spell to take her back home. She was stuck in the nineteen-forties. She was dead.

It took a long moment for the thought to really sink in. Throughout the course of the past months, she'd always known death was nipping at her ankles. But there was a difference between then and now—where there had been hope before, there wasn't any longer. Time would take its revenge on her, and she could do nothing about it.

Morgan tried to take a little time for introspection, but found she couldn't really think of anything but cold dark fingers closing in until the breath was stolen from her lungs. Her mind kept darting back to the all encompassing and terrifying blackness she'd felt in Hufflepuff's cave, moments before one of the sea-monsters was about to eat her.

That type of darkness had destroyed her senses, left her utterly alone until she couldn't tell if she was alive, or if she even wanted to live anymore. It'd been one of the scariest things she encountered throughout her life. Where trouble and strife had always left her feeling pain and panic, that blackness had left her numb—the true definition of lifelessness. Would death be like that?

Her body on auto-pilot, Morgan waved her wand until the contents of her trunk rearranged itself. She'd already shrunken it when she brushed her wrist across her eyes, startled to find tears steadily leaking from them.

Shocked, she stared at the drops soaking the back of her hand, and the new ones falling from the ends of her cheeks. They began a small puddle on the carpet.

Why had death been so easy to accept back in the Founders Cave? Why had she been so ready to give into the darkness then, but not now? Why couldn't she be strong _now_?

Was it because she'd thought she was dying to protect Tom? She hadn't answered any of Matthew's questions because she didn't want to lead Grindelwald's men to Tom Riddle, so maybe it'd been the fact that she was keeping him safe that allowed her to face her mortality head-on.

Or maybe she'd just been so desperate to make the pain end, that she didn't care whether she died or not.

Morgan stuffed her trunk into the pocket of her skirt, exiting the bedroom and walking into the hall. She felt strange; empty somehow—almost as if the fear of feeling numb had left her numb. It was scary, and when she ended up in the kitchen with no memory of walking there, the tears still sliding down her cheeks, she could only answer Violetta's cry of despair with one bewildered sounding sentence: "I'm dying."

* * *

"You're friend was quite the fly to get rid of, eh?" yellow teeth chomped into an apple, the juices traveling down the healer's face in small trails.

"Tell me about it," Morgan replied, her voice bland. "It took me two days to convince her to let me leave her house. And that was only because I kept throwing up blood on her living room floor, essentially scaring the shit out of her younger siblings."

"How did you keep her from sending you to St. Mungos?"

"I told her you were a family doctor, one who's had previous experience with my condition."

"She believed you?"

"She was willing to believe anything that gave her hope."

"You don't think you can be healed."

"I've got it on good authority that my death is inevitable."

"And how do you feel about that?"

"I've accepted it, if that's what you're asking."

Healer Banheart frowned, "I don't understand why you're here. You're not asking me to heal you, so what do you want from me?"

Morgan frowned. "I don't know. I didn't want my friend to see me die while trying to brush my teeth. I had nowhere else to go, I suppose." She took a long glance around Banheart's lodgings—a small apartment with a guest room fitted with the two beds she kept ready for patients.

"And what makes you think I want to clean up after you when you die?"

"You'll be paid for your troubles."

A silence bred between them, during which Banheart stared with wide eyes at the young woman shaking on her bed. There was something wholly disturbing about a person referring to their own demise as 'trouble'. But the medical witch didn't have it in her to give her patient false hope.

The girl was death warmed over, and even that was stretching it. Her body was disgustingly thin, her skin shallow and sickly, her eyes sunken. But it was more than that. Emotionally, she was empty and withdrawn. A part of the girl had already died.

"What about that boy," Banheart questioned, "the one who told me you would be coming to my apartment eventually? Surely, he cares about you. He would want to know what's going on."

"No. He doesn't care for me."

"I doubt that, lady. He was…disturbed when he spoke about you."

Morgan shrugged indifferently.

Banheart sighed with all the weariness of one who had seen too much of the world and was still weighed down with its sorrows. She took a seat next to Morgan, tossing her eaten apple into a garbage can by the door. Her wrinkled hand sought her patient's trembling one. "Listen, brat, we can go about this two ways. First way, I leave you to drown in self-inflicted isolation. I won't attempt to heal you, but simply administer pain potions when you feel unbearable agony. Eventually, the tissues of your lungs will fill with more blood than you can cough out, and you will drown. Of course, this is assuming the muscle tissue of your heart doesn't break down first, or your brain tissue. It's all very objective, you see."

"The second option," her patient croaked, and for a moment a misery so complete and a terror wholly parasitic washed across her features.

Banheart ached for the girl. She was scared, so terrified of her fate that there was no room inside her to feel anything else. The girl could hide it as much as she wanted, but she could never smother it.

"The second option," Banheart said, "would be for me to examine you. You're right—you are going to die, but I can slow the process. I can give you a week longer to live, and offer you a few more days out of bed. With the spells I cast over you, and the potions you ingest, I can promise you at least three days of strenuous activity. Three last days to _really_ live."

Morgan's hand tightened around the healer's.

"I'll give you two hours to think about it. Any longer than that, and you're condemning yourself to the first option. The work I want to do will take days."

So Banheart left, with sunlight streaming from the window, basking her dying patient in a glow filled with life.

* * *

Morgan's fingers clenched and unclenched around the threadbare blanket. She worked its stitching until the pad of her thumb was sore and red with the effort. Tears wet the bed.

She thought she was done with this, done with crying and feeling so damned sorry. Morgan had believed the only thing she could feel now was a constant fear, an emotion that stayed with her like a slow burning fire—eventually, it would consume her.

After she'd announced to Violetta that she was dying, her friend had nearly set the house on fire. The blond witch rushed to her side, eased her onto the couch, and demanded an explanation. So Morgan had made one up—an elaborate tale about a long battle with some incurable disease. Violetta was skeptical at first, believing Morgan's declarations to be the by-product of some new brand of humor, but that was before Tom's potions wore off and she coughed a continuous flow of blood onto the floor.

Rushed into bed, she was taken care of to the best of her friend's ability. Violetta did everything she could for Morgan: made her soup, stayed to talk with her, tried to hide the distress and sorrow the rest of the household felt.

Eventually though, Violetta figured out Morgan simply couldn't hold down food, that there was nothing the witch could do to ease the constant pain and starvation her body was going through. Eventually, Violetta found herself no longer trying to nurse her friend back to health, but rather, preapre her for death.

That was when she pitched a fit, demanding Morgan be taken to the hospital. Morgan knew she couldn't go to the hospital; the reason for her condition would be in danger of being discovered. Violetta was adamant though, and the only compromise Morgan could reach with her was to go see Banheart.

Banheart was the name on the parchment Tom Riddle left for her at the Leaky Cauldron. It had the healer's address, and a polite request for Morgan to go see her as soon as possible.

So she was here now, alone, just like she'd be for the rest of her short life if she didn't take the medical witch up on her offer.

But really, what would Morgan do with three extra days of life?

Involuntarily, she found herself thinking about Tom again, the way his cologne smelled, his smirk, his dark eyes. She could never deny the fact that she cared for him, couldn't say she didn't wish for his touch. But the fact remained that he felt nothing for her.

Even though her feelings were unrequited, they were still there.

Three more days to live. What would she do if she had three days to live in her own time?

Spend it with her friends, of course. She'd spend every second with them, and probably have sex with an attractive guy, because seriously, who was gonna die without experiencing _that_!

Morgan coughed and swiped more blood from her mouth. She thought about how she's given up everything for Dumbledore's stupid mission, of how her friends back home hated her. She could never get cut some slack, could she? She could never be allowed to fucking enjoy herself.

Life had been one struggle after another for her. She lived through years of hell at the orphanage, was given reprieve at Hogwarts, only to have everything she learned to cherish taken away from her for some stupid mission.

It was the same in this time, too, wasn't it? Morgan grew to care about Tom and Violetta and those wily Gryffindors, and now some deity saw fit to take them from her without so much as a goodbye.

What did she want to do with three days?

She wanted to spend it with the new people she'd come to cherish. She wanted to confess her feelings to a guy, even if they weren't returned. She wanted to feel the sun on her skin, the wind messing up her hair. Hell, who cared what she did, as long as she _lived_!

Her ferocious and deep thoughts had chased away the fear previously clouding her senses. No longer was she satisfied with accepting death. Not now. Not yet.

She stumbled out into the front room of Banheart's apartment with quailing legs. And even though every muscle burned with each contraction, Morgan pushed herself forward.

She only had so much time to spare, you know.

* * *

**Another Note: **I actually thought about cutting this off at Morgan's_ "Oh, and I'm dying"_ sentence, but realized I valued my life far, far too much to do that to you guys, ha ha.


	23. Chapter TwentyTwo

**A/N: Yo broski(s). So this whole "Three Days" chapter was turning out to be WAYY to long if I included all of the days. So I am forced to separate them. Days 2 and 3 will come in the next part. Anyways, thanks to all those who reviewed and fave'd and alert'd and all that jazz. There are a few reviews I would like to reply to right here, because they made me giggle.**

**To ****i(dot)am(dot)weasley(dot)fred(dot)** **-!1111**

**To Elysia Mador-Thank you for the brat comment. I read it while drinking Pepsi and nearly choked because I was laughing so hard.**

**To PurpleMonkeyDishwashers-Your wish has been granted, ha ha.**

**To flyingcrispi-Thanks for holding off on murdering me. Consensual contact? Check.**

**To Leah or grahamcracker-xx-Hmm, good guessing. You just have to wait and see (:**

**To an idiosyncratic-Nice job catching onto the innuendo. I salute you :D**

**To TogsTwilightFans-Your review made me laugh, while your dedication to finishing the story in two days made me smile. I hope your eyes didn't hurt too much after a night of all that reading!**

**So yeah, those are the reviews I wanted to reply to. And I have one more thing to say THAT IS VERY VERY VERY IMPORTANT BECAUSE IT IS TOTALLY AWESOME.**

**WE HAVE FAN ART!111**

**Yes, that's right, _CrackedLips_ was so UBER amazing that she drew me a picture that literally took my breath away. It's of Morgan fighting against Billy, the arcomantula. The artwork is simply amazing, and I'll encourage everyone to go check it out because it's awesome. SO. AWESOME. I LOVE THIS GIRL, ha ha. Here's the link**

**http : / / brittster0709 (dot) deviantart (dot) com / # / d2vjlvz**

**Take away the spaces and replace the (dot)s and there you have it! **

**Jeesh, this is a long ass note. I'll wrap it up now and only say this: Thanks to HanaIRL, my best friend in real life AND the internet, for helping me out. **

**Best read with a hint of lime.  
**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Three Last Days—Part One**

"Hold still."

"Easier said than done, hag."

"It'd be wise of you to respect the hand that keeps you alive."

At Morgan's slight scoff, the medical witch hissed, "_Brat_!" and delivered a swift blow to the younger woman's head.

"Ow!" Morgan protested, rubbing her sore appendage. "Wasn't that a bit counterproductive to the healing process?"

Banheart gripped her patient's collarbone and applied a decent amount of pressure. The girl was able to strain against the hand for half a minute before her sickness took its toll. The breath was yanked from her lungs with a wet and sticky sound as she fell against her pillows tiredly. "Better. You're getting stronger. But for the love of all that is holy, _stay still_!"

Morgan took in the concentrated pull of her healer's eyebrows, cataloguing how the wrinkled skin sank in deep pockets under the blunt bones of her cheeks. Banheart had most definitely seen better, younger days, yet she still slaved over Morgan with all the vigilance and determination of the most lively of healers.

"Sorry," the girl ground out, the single word conveying all the frustration her body-language hinted at. "It's just…very hard."

"Understandable," Banheart remarked. Things hadn't been easy for the girl. Constantly drugged to bring her into states of awareness and unawareness as per-Banheart's needs, the past three days were not much more than a blur of suffering for Morgan. She hadn't had the voice to scream when something particularly sore was prodded, but she was sure tears had burned permanent trails down her cheeks, cutting through the grime.

Morgan and her pain-tolerance weren't the only things being put to the test, either. Banheart was elbows deep in an assignment many would consider pointless—and indeed, in a way it was. All of her work, _hours_ upon _hours_ of work, wasn't even to ensure her patient a long life. It was to secure the girl a mere three days of vibrant living.

The girl's insides were an absolute mess. Organ tissues had to be stimulated to grow, muscles had to be repaired and gradually enhanced, blood had to be replenished, and lungs had to be periodically cleaned out.

Banheart had spent the past three days ripping and tearing her way through each of these problems, and soon found the next hurdle to be crossed more delicate than its predecessors.

While stimulating the regeneration of Morgan's body, it was discovered that the body didn't _want_ to be healed. Repaired tissue would dissolve at a rate twice as fast. Lungs would fill with blood twice as quickly. Muscles would wither away twice as easily. Each step forward would bring the duo two steps back within minutes. It was disheartening to say the least, and all the hopelessness in the girl's two blue eyes suddenly made a lot more sense.

But Banheart had been prepared for such complications—it'd been the first thing her patient told her upon entering the apartment, and had been the reason both knew death was inevitable. Anything healed would become undone. Simple as that.

There were several spells common among the Dark Arts that carried similar effects. Counter-curses for bones that would break each time they were healed, for organs that would burst each time they were regenerated; they existed, though they were hard to find.

Banheart could recall several patients who had suffered such curses, and could also remember seeking ways to slow down the spell's effects in time to find the counter-curse. Because that was what you did when you dealt with something that wouldn't stay fixed—you slowed the breaking process. It was messy, it was painful, and it involved a hell of a lot of trial and error.

No one could say it didn't work, though, and Banheart's current patient was a testament to that. Three days ago, she could barely move, and now she was gathering her strength to stand. Unfortunately, having an insubordinate patient wriggling around while you prevented her liver from collapsing was quite distracting.

"Be still, you insolent twat!"Banheart yelled, her concentration slipping from her grasp. The organ was pulverized.

Morgan cried out in agony as the skin just below her breasts turned a sickly color, blood weeping under its taut surface. Waspish words were spat in quick succession, binding her body into stillness as the pain seared through her nerves. Calm breaths turned to gasping pants while the girl's vision spotted white with pain.

And then it was done.

"I _hate_ that," Morgan whined, "what is it? Like the third time!"

Banheart bared dirty teeth, "I told you to stop moving! Just like I told you the other three times! When are you going to accept that this isn't something I can do over night?"

"I have things to do! Important things to do! Things that must be done before Christmas vacation is over. I—" here the girl fumbled for words, "oh never mind." Her voice trailed off and bright eyes narrowed in contemplation. "Ah hell," she admitted after a moment of silence, "I have no idea what I'm doing. But that doesn't matter, does it?"

"That all depends on the matters you speak of," Banheart replied guardedly, slumping in the wooden chair pulled up beside the bed. With the necessary charms in place, all that was left to do was wait. It was the fourth set of spells she'd tried using to slow down the illness' effectiveness, and only time could tell whether it would work or not.

Morgan harrumphed with a displeasured attitude that had become habitual. Not that Banheart minded, for negative feelings were better than no feelings at all. The elder witch propped her feet at the edge of the bed and tipped her head backwards.

"Matters of the heart, perhaps?" the healer inquired. "Matters having to do with the gentleman you swore feels nothing but disinterest for you?"

"Maybe," Morgan hedged.

"Do you wish to discuss it?"

The sun continued its steady descent from the sky. Morgan picked at her blankets and studiously avoided Banheart's eyes. "You'll think it's stupid," she warned.

"The heart often is," Banheart rebutted.

"Okay, fine. So let's say there was a guy, a guy you knew was terrible and bad but you ended up caring for nonetheless. Now let's say this guy didn't give a prat's ass about you, and you discovered you only had three days to live. Now tell me, how would you spend those three days?"

"I would spend my days with the man who doesn't care for me."

Morgan gaped at her healer. "But why! That's completely illogical. If he doesn't care about you, why would you spend your last precious days of life with him? Why not with someone who deserves your company?"

"I believe death allows us some selfishness. The world deems those who do not appreciate my company undeserving of it. If I were dying, _I_ would determine who did or did not deserve my companionship."

"But what if you had friends who loved you? And would miss you. Shouldn't you say goodbye to them, if only because they'll remember your farewell?"

Banheart sighed and withdrew an apple from the long pockets of her dark robes. "You aren't using your heart, brat, you're using your head. Where death is concerned, there is no room for logic, only room for feeling. Now tell me, how do you feel? With whom do you want to be with?"

"_Him_," she said with an air of defeat. "After everything he's done to me, after all the pain and doubt, it's only ever going to be him. He isn't good for me—in fact, if I weren't already dying, I'd say he was a bad influence on my lifespan. And I know I should hate him, and I know I should be terrified of him, but I can't stop this feeling that's literally burning me up inside."

"Hmm, are you sure you're not feeling your spleen dissolving again?"

Morgan shot Banheart a withering glare and turned her thoughts inwards. "No, it's nothing like that. I know pain. Pain dulls over time; wounds are sealed and sewn shut. But this pain doesn't go away. I've felt it for quite awhile, and I recognize it well enough. It's self-loathing and a warm feeling blended together."

"Self-loathing?"

"Yeah," Morgan replied easily enough. "You have no idea how many people I've hurt in the space of four months." Her thoughts skimmed over James before thrusting deeply into her true Hogwarts family. The Dark vs. Light war was still ongoing (or was yet to be waged) and she could never really deny the thought that danced along the edges of her mind: 'Traitor'.

Worse—she could never bring herself to care enough to crush her feelings.

"Love," Banheart declared with all the authority in the world, "is not eyes catching across the room, gentle caresses under the moonlight, bodies moving together in perfect unity, darling children, or happily ever after. Love is _dark_ and _twisted_ and _scary_. It's loss of self-assurance, defenselessness, alienation, fear! It changes people—makes them selfish, ugly shadows of what they once were, makes them enjoy it, too."

Morgan waited for the healer to tack on the inevitable, '_But_…' wondering when love was even brought into the conversation. When it was clear Banheart wasn't going to add a good word about the emotion speculated to be the epitome of all goodness, she spoke. "Someone sounds a bit jilted."

Banheart chucked her apple core into the garbage can. "Maybe, but you see the truth in the words. You're love for that boy has changed you, and you can't bring yourself to do anything but enjoy it."

Trying to salvage what was left of the original topic, Morgan interrupted. "So you would spend your last days with the boy you have unrequited feelings for?"

"That's what I said, wasn't it? Not that my words have made much of a difference. You were only asking me so I could justify the decision you already made. You knew the moment you left the boy you were going to go back to him."

"How did you know?"

"Because I know love."

"It's terrible, isn't it?" Morgan asked, because the elder witch had been right about her preordained decision. She'd always known exactly who she would spend her last days of life with.

"No," the healer disagreed, her eyes fluttering shut, "it's absolutely breathtaking."

The sun fell below the horizon. Morgan rubbed her eyes, body still aching with memories of previous agonies. "You were right," she said, almost as an after-thought. "This feeling inside me, it makes me terribly selfish."

"How so?"

"I had something important to do, a very important task entrusted to me. It's one that could save thousands of lives. And you know what? I'm throwing it away."

"Love is dangerous." Banheart acknowledged, "It can make the strongest of us forget our honor and obligations." Bones creaked as the healer began stretching worked muscles, "Perhaps if this task is as great as you make it out to be, I should dissuade you from going back to your boy."

"I'm not sure anything can change my mind. Even now, even after admitting to myself that ignoring my mission is wrong and dangerous, I can't help but think, 'leave the problems for the living'."

"You are indeed, a very selfish young lady."

"I'm in love _and_ dying," Morgan protested.

"Same thing."

A light knock at the door ended the patient-healer repartee. Banheart lumbered from her chair with all the grace of a confused bear, her footsteps heavy against the wooden floor as she left the room. Mumbles of, "who the hell comes calling at this hour?" and other aggravated mutterings led the healer to the front door.

"Yes?" the woman demanded darkly, filling the doorway with her thick hands on even thicker hips. Very little light leant itself to the apartment's tenants, so it was a few uneasy moments before Banheart sighed, "Oh, it's you," and ushered the guest inside her home.

"This place is just as charming as I remembered it to be," the blond haired witch remarked, though her voice lacked its usual dry humor and emotion. Her face was pinched and stretched tight, the ever-present frown marring her features abysmally. She looked like an aggrieved and battered housewife, and the tight bun that pulled the hair from her face did little to dispel the image. Neither did the dark clothes. "It needs a good cleaning up."

"The runt's in the back," Banheart said as a greeting, ignoring the upturned nose of her patient's visitor. Far be it from her to bend to the whims of an uppity witch. She shuffled to the rusted and moldy kitchen, cranking the sink and waiting the usual minute before the cloudiness in the water cleared.

Violetta Fanding recognized a dismissal when it was being shoved in her face. "Very well," she said. Retracing the healer's steps, she found her way to the door that separated the rest of the apartment from the sick. It was opened with little preamble.

Watching your most head-strong best friend struggle to lift their upper body was almost like getting kicked in the stomach. All the air left Violetta in a sweeping sigh, and the tears she promised she wouldn't shed tingled at the corners of her eyes. Her friend made for a truly pathetic sight.

"Leah," Violetta said softly, at a loss to do much else.

* * *

Morgan's frown was feral as she fought against the dead weight of her limbs. She whined slightly, like a dog that'd just been punted off the couch, before giving up and lying flat on the bed. She addressed the ceiling, "Good evening, Vi Vi."

A head of blond hair loomed above her, and Morgan was given a very unflattering view of her friend. Violetta looked ill and very severe, something Morgan disliked seeing. She tried to lighten the mood, "You look like you're going to attend a funeral."

Violetta snorted back her tears in a very unladylike manner. She settled her hands under Morgan's arms and gently helped her in a more comfortable, upright position. "I thought I might be."

The words were so morbid, and said in such a monotone, that Morgan knew Violetta believed them. The sick witch grimaced. "I'm sorry."

A disbelieving scoff was all Morgan got in response as Violetta peeled back the curtains in the room, illuminating the space available. It was just as downtrodden as the rest of the apartment, though Banheart made the effort to dust in the vicinity of her patient.

From her perch on the bed, Morgan watched her friend cast a disapproving eye around the abode, wrinkling her delicate nose every now and then. "This room is horrendous," she decided at last.

"I think it's quaint."

"You're delirious, the ceiling leaks!"

"How else am I going to bathe?"

The nose wrinkled again. "Oh dear, you stink!"

The sentence was so abrupt and impolite that Morgan guffawed. She laughed until her chest heaved with the effort, and through her watering eyes, she spied a small smile plastered on Violetta's face as well.

"You're so complimentary, Violetta," Morgan finally choked out, swatting at the laughter-induced tears that danced down her cheeks.

"Compliment or not, I meant it!" the witch answered back, her own gaze lightening under the friendly banter. "Doesn't that healer take care of you?"

"Sure she does. I'm not dead yet, am I?" Morgan gave a snarky grin of her own. She knew she'd stepped too far, however, when Violetta's features fell. "Erm, _ha_ _ha_?"

"Oh Leah," Violetta exclaimed, equal parts amusement and despair lacing her tone. She pulled out her wand, "I think I would like to fix this place up properly."

"Uhm…" Morgan started, because Banheart liked her mess just the way it was.

But there was no stopping Fanding when she was on a roll, and she quite coolly rolled her eyes at Morgan's expense before getting to work. Dust was sucked into oblivion, a cleaning spell had the stained floors looking shiny and smelling like pine, the cracks in the window were mended, the light bulb in the lamp replaced, and the sheets of the bed opposite Morgan cleaned and patted down.

Morgan had watched the display of magic with thinly veiled admiration. She would never get over the fact that the Underage Magic Law only applied to those between the ages of eleven and sixteen—it was a good year off from the age in her time.

She threw an approving eye around her surrounds, discovering that the only relatively dirty thing in the room was herself.

"Your turn," Violetta declared with flourish. The sleeves of her black blouse were rolled up tightly, and a wave of her wand summoned a huge metal tub filled with steaming water. After another half-circled flick, a collection of sponges and soaps fell from the ceiling.

"A sponge bath!" Morgan wailed in despair, "What am I? Some kind of invalid!"

Her friend raised a well-groomed brow, the, 'well no shit,' expression clear on her face. "Leah, you're covered in your own sweat and dirt. Your bed is starting to look moldy, and your hair is two shades darker than I remembered. Now, I'm going to give you a bath, and lord help me, but I'll knock you unconscious if I have to."

Morgan quivered in fear. "You're going to make one scary mother."

This was taken as a compliment, as the other witch smirked wickedly and advanced upon the bedridden patient. Morgan squirmed all the while, until at last she was stripped and sinking into the depths of the water. Aching muscles melted as she slipped further in, until only her eyes were visible above the surface.

The feeling paled in comparison to Violetta's skilled hands pounding soap into her shoulders and back, kneading grime away with every stroke of her knuckles. The stomach and abdomen were areas that Violetta took more caution with, as pressing too hard would draw strangled cries of pain—along with a colorful collection of swear words—from Morgan's gritted teeth.

It was only when Morgan's hair was lathered with soap that the two friends spoke again. "You look…better," Violetta remarked hesitantly, her fingers brushing against Morgan's scalp.

Head tipped to observe a particularly large crack on the wall, Morgan replied. "I'm feeling better, and not just physically."

"Mhm," Violetta hummed, "I've noticed. The first two days you were…" there was a considerate pause, "…scary."

"I imagine I was," Morgan acknowledged, dashing the blonde's fears that she was offended. "It's hard to explain, but…those two days were the days I gave up. I was so _afraid_. There was no room inside me for anything but fear, and it left me empty. Not to worry, though, I feel like myself again."

"That's good, very good. But _physically_…?"

The reply came from a clenched jaw. "I haven't thrown up on you, have I?"

"No."

"Ah." Morgan fought back her guilt. She wasn't exactly lying, but she was certainly exercising her skills in misdirection. But how could she not? Morgan didn't think she could handle another woefully depressed episode with Violetta.

Her nice view of the wall was obscured by a wave of water that crashed into her eyes and up her nose. "W-what the fuck was that!" she demanded, spitting warm water, her body rigid with indignation.

"Surprise, Hume," Violetta smiled, dropping a towel on her head. "Get yourself dried off while I work on cleaning your bed."

Growling, Morgan said, "I _can't_, woman!"

Violetta snickered before lending Morgan support, acting as a crutch as the ill witch exited the tub with a splash of dirtied water. One hand trembled, unused to such exertion, as it worked to keep the towel around her body. Morgan scowled at her shaking appendages.

A few wand waves later, and the bed Morgan had been confined to for the past three days was cleaned. "Holy shit, the sheets were white? I thought they'd always been gray…"

Violetta grinned, summoning a clean shirt and pair of shorts for her friend to wear. She helped Morgan into the loose cotton clothing without objection or complaint. Only when Morgan was resting back in bed, smelling and feeling much fresher than before, did the blond haired witch settle into a chair.

Morgan rolled her eyes and reached for Violetta's hand. "No, sit up here with me."

The request was fulfilled when the two friends sat against the bed's headboard, shoulders brushing and hands locked together. The touch was reassuring for the both of them. Morgan took strength from Violetta's hand, while the blonde was content to let the contact remind her that her friend wasn't dead yet.

"I'm not sure where I would be without you," Morgan said after a comfortable silence. "You're my truest and greatest friend, and I'm terrible with touchy feely stuff, but there you go."

"How un-Slytherin of you," Violetta observed coldly, though her voice struggled to keep its aloof and indifferent tone.

Morgan grinned at the awkwardness of it all, at how they were both determinedly staring at everything _but_ each other. How _very_ Slytherin of them. "Yes. I owe you for doing this."

"You do."

"I wonder if there was ever something I could do to repay you."

"There is."

"Oh? You thought of that fast."

"I only require one thing in return."

"Do tell."

"Just," the grip on Morgan's hand tightened, "get better. Please, _please_, stay alive." Violetta's voice cracked and she sniffled, desperately trying to regain her composure. "_Please don't leave me_."

"How un-Slytherin of you," Morgan mock sighed.

Violetta gave a strangled laugh that was thick with tears. "Screw you."

"Oh my, I'm a bad influence!"

Violetta's hand detached itself from their embrace and hurriedly swiped across her face. When she reached for Morgan again, her skin was slick with tears. "Yes you are, Hume. And you _need_ to stick around, because who else is going to influence my children in the same way? And your own children, they're going to need someone to set a good example for them, too. So don't you see? We _must_ stay together. You aren't allowed to—" her words broke off in another choked breath.

"To what? Kick the bucket?" Morgan tried to grin as carelessly as she used to. "Jeesh man, don't waste your tears. I'm not going anywhere."

"You have not changed a bit. You are still a terrible liar."

Morgan was somber when she replied, because if there ever was a time for seriousness, it was now. She didn't want to hurt her friend, not anymore, and while she'd thought she could skirt around the issue of her death, it was apparent that it was unavoidable.

"Violetta, I—I can't promise anything, it would be empty and that's not fair to you. I'm sick, and I'm trying to fight it, but—" she grimly bit her tongue. "Well, anyways, I don't want to die, I don't want to leave you and everyone else behind, but—ugh." Why was this so hard? Goddamn, they weren't even looking at each other! "Just know that, well, I love you, you proper-up-tight-aloof-Slytherin, you." She returned Violetta's tight grip and lightly knocked their shoulders together.

Emotions sucked. Expressing them sucked even more.

Violetta gave one last sniffle before her throat cleared. "'Everything dies. Not everything grows old.' Or so St. Augustine of Hippo says. It's not fair, but I suppose it's true."

"Suppose so," Morgan agreed.

Another silence descended, and the two friends remained still for a very long time.

* * *

"Huh. That went better than I thought it would."

Morgan observed Banheart through half-open lids, "And why do you say that?"

"Your insides actually held up. I was prepared to hear that pretty blonde shriek up a storm when all your organs burst." The healer approached the bed with her wand pointed towards her patient. "It appears the spells worked."

"W-what!" Morgan spat, fury clouding her mind. "You let my friend in here, even though you believed my organs would spontaneously collapse and begin dissolving again? Do you have any idea how terrified she would have been!"

"Stop mouthing off to me, idiot. It didn't happen, so there's no need to speculate on all the 'what-ifs'. It is a waste of time."

The scowled remained carved in Morgan's features.

"It was a good test," Banheart said with an air of finality. "And now that we've found the correct spells to slow down your illness, the only thing left to do is give you some potions. A couple of muscle-mass potions, strengthening mixes, and the likes should keep you in working order."

"_Should_," Morgan scoffed.

Banheart cuffed the side of her head. "One would think you'd show some more respect, considering I'm going to work well into the night to ensure you're ready to see that boy in a day's time."

Morgan stiffened. Then, she groaned. "What in the hell am I going to say to him?"

Banheart shrugged. "Be yourself."

"He's going to kill me."

"Why?"

"We didn't part on very good terms." And that was putting it lightly. She'd been furious at him for letting her get tortured. He'd been pissed about her dismissing what he'd done to save her life.

Morgan was still a bit sketchy about his anger. Sure, it was easy to see his point after her fury ebbed away. Tom had tried to save her on the bridge, prevented Matthew from killing her, and had seen to her injuries. And okay, _maybe_ he could have a viable reason for letting Matthew torture her for a few minutes. That all made sense. What didn't make sense was _why_ he was mad. Who cared if she decided he wasn't good for her? Who cared if she tried to stomp out her romantic feelings for him?

_Why did Tom care if she left? _

She was bitterly confused, and filled with further unease about their impending meeting. She wouldn't die without letting him know her feelings, but at the same time, she felt an immeasurable amount of apprehension about what would follow her confession.

"You could start over," Banheart suggested.

Impossible. Maybe she could put the past behind her, but Riddle would do no such thing. His pride wouldn't allow it.

"No," she muttered, "not start over. I'll just do what I do best—wing it!"

Morgan pondered her familiar plan while Banheart summoned a handful of potions. "You'll have to drink all of these tomorrow morning. It will give you the strength you need. I'll impart upon you a bag filled with potions for the following two days as well, but bear in mind that their effectiveness will dwindle as time passes."

Nodding carelessly, Morgan was attacked by another harrowing thought. "Oh _no_," she cried unhappily, "what the fuck am I going to _wear_?"

* * *

**December 30, 1943—Day One**

Morgan saw him on accident.

She'd been pacing the streets of Diagon Alley, relishing the way her limbs brought her from Point A to Point B without tremors, when she spied the hunched-over figure of Tom Riddle. It was hard to tell under all the layers he wore, but the mop of dark hair was a dead giveaway.

He was sitting on a bench in one of the small parks, scuffing his shoe back and forth along the pavement. His fine hands were stuffed inside the pockets of his jacket, and Morgan could tell the cool afternoon air was catching up with him, for the tips of his ears were bright red.

There wasn't park amidst the cobbled streets of the Diagon Alley in her time, so Morgan was left to wonder at the beauty the outdoor getaway held when it wasn't hidden under a thick layer of snow. Lifeless trees served as constant companies, close enough on both sides of the narrow and winding pathway for her to reach out and touch. She imagined their canopies would cast cool shadows during the summer, and nibbled her lip when she remembered it was a sight she would never see.

Taking a seat at the opposite end of the bench, Morgan burrowed further in her coat and shot Tom curious glances from the corner of her eyes. A scarf was wrapped around the bottom half of his face, but Morgan didn't have to see the small frown that undoubtedly abused his lips to know he was deep in thought. His bent head and jittering leg were good enough indicators.

He looked…unwell. Usually immaculate, his dark hair was in disarray. Large chunks of his locks defied gravity, sticking upwards and outwards at unusual angles. Morgan personally thought it made him look badass, but knew that wasn't the consensual conclusion of others who lived in this time. From someone else's perspective, he probably looked like a crazy person.

How could Morgan ever convey that in the future, people spent copious amounts of time trying to get their hair to look as messy as possible? It was a lost cause, and as such, it meant that Morgan was the only one who found Riddle good enough to eat.

The silence continued. Either Tom hadn't noticed her, or thought her beneath acknowledging. The former was more likely, and it made her the slightest bit angry.

"You're gonna get frostbite, you know," she said, trying to broach the gulf of unspoken words and hidden feelings that separated them. "I don't think your poor ears can handle much more neglect."

Nothing. Silent and stoic as ever, Riddle didn't even tilt his head to let her know he was listening. His shoe never stopped the beat it struck against the ground.

What a prick.

She should just leave him outside to freeze. He'd make a great icicle.

Tom sighed, the cloud of vapor billowing from his mouth the only sign of his discontent. He still kept his gaze firmly affixed to some distant point, yet Morgan felt it was as good a greeting as any other.

"Hello to you too," she grumbled, and reached for her wand. "I'll just cast the warming spell then, considering you're being too stubborn and dumb to do it yourself." She lifted her wand and pointed it towards her companion.

In a motion that was far too fast and elegant for her tastes, Tom had his own wand out and digging into the curve of her neck. Her mouth popped open in a small 'o' and Tom finally lifted his gaze to meet hers.

Huge clouts of darkened skin had taken up residence under his eyes, making him look eerily sick. Was her appearance as terrible as his was now, when she was sick? God, she hoped not.

Momentary surprise and uneasiness battled for control in his eyes before he threw up the metaphorical wall. Expression closed off, he cocked his head to the side, slowly withdrew his wand from her neck, and slapped her hand away from his person. "Leah?" he asked curiously.

Pursing her lips, Morgan replied with as much ire as she could work into one word. "Yes."

"Oh," Tom said tonelessly. "I didn't recognize your voice. It doesn't sound like a cat's dying screech anymore."

Morgan's mouth opened and closed repeatedly, like a fish out of water. Of all the words she expected him to say upon their meeting, those were the last. "Uh, is that like some backhanded compliment?"

"No. It is simply the truth." Tom sighed again.

It then occurred to Morgan that she was witnessing an episode of depression from _the_ Tom Riddle, the future Dark Lord and Evil Overlord Of All Things Evil. She took note that he _really_ didn't look well.

She scooted closer. The bench suddenly seemed a hell of a lot longer.

"What are you doing here?" Tom asked, fiddling with his hands in his pockets. His foot resumed its task of wearing down the park pavement.

"You know, the usual," Morgan waved her arm in an exaggerated arc, and not necessarily because it illustrated her point. She was still having a hard time getting used to her returned strength. "I was just walking around when I saw the park, and then I saw you, and then I was like 'Huh, what the hell, let's go say hi!' and then I sat down, and then I tried talking to you, and then—" she realized with a huff that her companion had stopped listening. "Schmuck," she grumbled under her breath.

Morgan slid another inch closer to him. Their knees were almost touching. Tom's eyes had long since returned to the floor. "You know, you really need to help out your poor ears," the appendages had become redder, if that was possible.

Tom Riddle didn't answer, so Morgan took the liberty of raising her wand again. A scathing glare from Tom froze her hand centimeters from his shoulder. "Okay, okay, be that way."

She bit her lip and considered the situation. Tom was definitely in a funk. She wondered why. She also wondered how much longer his ears would last. Morgan decided she rather liked Tom's ears, and before she could speculate on the consequences of her actions (possibly the removal of her poor fingers), she reached her hand forward and cupped the ear closest to her.

Tom stilled immediately, though thankfully didn't start ripping the offending fingers from their sockets. Morgan took this as a good sign, and hesitantly began rubbing the curve of his ear between her warm thumb and pointer-finger. He let out a small hiss of pain.

"Sorry," Morgan mumbled, and she reached her free hand behind his back to relieve his other ear. "You know, we used to do this at the orphanage, because not everyone got hats or ear-muffs for the winter. I remember one time, this short kid named Allen begged me to rub his ears for over an hour when he went to play in the snow. I cuffed him on the side of the head, called him an idiot, and gave him my hat. Brat looked at me like I was crazy, then took off like a bullet before I could change my mind." Morgan bit her lip, wondering why she felt so compelled to relay stupid childhood stories.

"Similar actions occurred at the place of my childhood," Tom replied quietly, not turning to look at her. "But never with me." He let out another breath of pain when she began warming his earlobe. "That hurts."

"I would imagine so."

"It's your fault that it hurts," he said more firmly, and at Morgan's raised brow, continued. "The cold never bothered me before, when I knew nothing of warmth. Now that I know how much it hurts to be without it, I don't think I'll ever be able to stand being cold again."

Morgan thought he was being awfully general and strangely dramatic about a pair of cold ears, but replied nonetheless. "I could always take my hands back."

He leaned closer, tipping his head into her touch. "No," he mumbled.

Morgan sighed, expelling her exasperation into the cool air. "Come on, you goof," she said, "You need hot chocolate."

Tom didn't resist as she gently tugged him to his feet, and he grabbed at her retreating hands quickly. He gripped them tight before releasing her and allowing a few inches of space to expand between their bodies. Morgan wasn't sure what to make of the strange behavior.

"What were you so lost in thought about, I wonder," Morgan mused aloud, matching Tom's pace.

"I was thinking about why I cannot seem to think properly," came the enigmatic reply.

Morgan scowled. "No need to make sense, or anything," she grumbled darkly, finally dragging her companion to a stop outside a nice café. "This looks good, right?"

Tom was too preoccupied with his reflection to answer. He groaned, patting at his hair in slight dismay.

Morgan almost giggled at the vain display. "Yeah, you look like shit."

He glared at her in response, but before he could retort, she was pushing him through the doors. The inside of the shop was homely, with small and creaky wooden tables lining the wall. Opposite of them, a large counter stretched from the front of the store to the back. An aging witch lounged behind the cash register, a smile stretching her face when she spied her first customers of the day.

"What can I get you?"

"Two hot chocolates," Morgan answered with a bright smile, "extra marshmallows—we've got some cheering up to do!" She thrust over the Wizarding currency, nodding in understanding when the witch said their order would be brought to them shortly.

Morgan led Tom to the table in the back, and furrowed her brow in concern when he melted into the chair. "When's the last time you slept?" she demanded.

"A few days ago."

"Jeesh, Tom, I leave for a week and you fall apart," Morgan teased.

Tom's dark eyes searched Morgan's with a startling intensity. "Hmm," he remarked, revealing absolutely nothing.

The witch sitting across from him glared, but was saved from replying when two steaming mugs floated onto the table, separating them. Each cup was atrociously big, a mountain of marshmallows nearly tumbling from its sides. Morgan eyes grew wide in delight, and she unceremoniously devoured the treat with flourish.

Tom followed her example at a much more subdued pace.

All was silent, save for the occasional slurping sound (Morgan was at fault for this), and soon both patrons found that their mugs did not hold all the answers in the world, and were therefore forced to return their gazes to each other.

"Why are you here?" Tom asked.

"This question feels familiar."

"Not as in 'why are you in this shop,' but as in 'why are you with me'?"

"Oh," that inquiry made much more sense.

"Last time we spoke, you said you wanted nothing to do with me. I expected you to follow-up on that statement and stay away." He was studying her intently, and the back of her neck began to burn.

This was happening too fast. She didn't want to spill her guts to him over a cup of hot chocolate—that hardly did her feelings justice. But she couldn't avoid answering the question. She decided to put her brilliant skills of misdirection to work…again. "I was just angry," she muttered, "You've been pissing me off lately."

"Yes, I figured that out."

"Yeah, yeah," she growled at his sarcastic remark. "You know I was mad, but I bet you don't know _why_ I was mad."

Tom fingered his wand in his pocket before casting a silencing charm. "Let me guess," he said once he knew their words would be between them and them alone. "You are angry because I manipulated you into helping me and watched while one of Grindelwald's henchmen tortured you to near-death."

"Good guess, but wrong." Morgan enjoyed the slight widening of his eyes, and trudged on. "I've been manipulated before," she thought of Snape and Dumbledore, "and I've been through torture that was far worse, and lasted for much longer than what Matthew did to me," she thought of the Death Eaters at Hogwarts and of Lord Voldemort himself. "That wasn't why I was mad. I was mad because you don't want to be friends."

Tom choked on his drink and coughed a few times before he was able to answer. "W-what!"

"You heard me. I'm mad because you don't want to be my friend, even though I want to be yours, and even though I actually thought we were friends at one point."

"You are being slightly more ridiculous than usual," Tom wheezed, "Where did you get that idea from?"

"Well," Morgan began ticking the reasons off on her fingers, "when you're friends with someone, you _know_ you don't have to manipulate them. You can trust your friend to do you a favor, even if you don't explain _why_ the favor needs to be done. You manipulated me to get me to distract Matthew. I know your plans are all hush-hush, and that's fine with me. You could have just told me what needed to be done, without revealing the grand scheme you plotted."

She waited patiently for him to absorb that before continuing. "Secondly, you watched me get tortured. Friends protect each other; they don't let each other get hurt by crazy people in ugly cloaks. Oh, and I've just thought of another reason. You deceived me. Friends don't deceive each other. You should have just told me that you were disguised as Anthony, or given me a sign, or something.

"Anyways, it was from all of this that I concluded you didn't think of me as a friend, but instead as another mindless follower, which is an insult in itself. I really want to be friends with you, and you have no idea how much it hurts when an extended friendship gets thrown in your face.

"So that's why I said those mean things to you. I was very angry, and needed to vent my feelings, and more importantly, wanted to end our fake friendship on my terms, before you could do it. I didn't think my dignity could survive you explaining to me that I meant nothing." She shrugged good-naturedly.

"But if you thought all of those misconstrued notions were true, why did you find me again?"

"Because I decided that even if I wasn't your friend, you were still mine, and I enjoy your company and I care about you."

Waiting expectantly, Morgan watched Tom, trying to _will_ him into responding. When the silence lasted for more than five minutes, and he still hadn't replied, she began to worry.

Tom broke the monotony of the moment when he stared at a point above her shoulder and rubbed at his head roughly. "I'm tired," he declared. "I'm going to sleep."

Morgan gaped at him, unable to form a coherent sentence as he abruptly stood from the table and stalked out the door. "You've got to be kidding me," she worried her bottom lip between her teeth, "if this is how he reacts to me wanting to be his friend, what will he say when I tell him I want to jump his bones!"

She let out a pained-sounding grunt and dropped her head on the table. A few moments later, when she felt she'd graciously collected herself, she went after him. She caught up to him before he closed the door to his room at the Leaky Cauldron, and tsked in disapproval when he didn't even notice her slip inside.

Tom went straight to his bed and dropped on it without any preamble. Morgan continued to worry from afar. Something was not right, and it went beyond depression. Cautiously, she approached his sprawled body, her eyes drawn to the hand that was still stuck inside his coat pocket.

Carefully, she tried pulling it out. She met little resistance, and soon detangled his arm from all the cloth.

"Goddamn it," she said worriedly, "you are such an idiot Tom!"

His hand was locked tight around a pulsing pendant hanging from a gold chain. It had to be the Founders Necklace, for nothing else could be that powerful. Morgan bit back a gag when she tried peeling his fingers away from the artifact and found the gem seared into his palm. The skin of his hand was bubbly and blistered, burned from the magic the Founders created.

"Assholes," Morgan cursed them darkly. She had to get it away from Tom. It was quite obvious that the waves of raw magic were doing nothing good for his health. But she herself was loath to touch the thing. It felt wrong, and the power pouring from it felt tainted.

She peeled her coat from her fingers, using it as a fabric barrier. Blessedly covered, she gently grabbed at the gold-encrusted jewel. Its magic was seated deep inside Tom, and Morgan had to put as much force as she could behind her arm to rip it from him. It came away in a flurry of blood and skin, and Morgan had to close her eyes to prevent herself from throwing up.

Tom groaned in pain while the blood began pouring profusely from his injured hand. Scowling, Morgan flung the necklace across the floor and reached inside the enchanted pockets of her jacket. Despite their small appearance, they held an abundance of items. Morgan retrieved a small flask of strong alcohol (your last resort pain reliever, Banheart had said) and poured it on Tom's hand.

He thrashed weakly, and his wound bubbled grossly. Taking out some bandages, Morgan cleaned the wound before dressing it snuggly. Only when she was satisfied that she could do no more for the injury, did she move onto her other problems.

Tom was sweating, and his skin felt slightly feverish. Groaning and swearing under her breath, she pulled off almost all of his thick layers, until he was bare-chested and clad in only trousers. She preformed a transfiguration spell, and changed the thick material of the pants to an airy and cotton cloth. Next, she cleaned the blood from the bed, and settled her unconscious companion against the pillows. Once that was done, she turned her attention to the source of her problems.

The Founders Necklace.

A voice in the back of her whispered that it was the best time to steal the thing, and finally complete the mission. Another voice, a louder one, despaired at the thought of being separated from Tom when she only had so much time left with him.

In the end, she tossed her jacket over the forgotten gem on the floor and summoned a comfy arm chair. She did something she couldn't afford to do—she waited.

* * *

Phantom fingers fought to hold him tight, to bring him under a pool of darkness. Flashes of scenes, blurry and vague like half-forgotten dreams, teased his other senses. A light scent of citrus, a brush of rough skin over skin, a smooth soprano voice, the taste of chocolate—they all came together to illustrate a beautiful and far too realistic hallucination.

It seemed no matter what he did, he could not escape Leah.

Coarse sheets chafed along his chest, and Tom wondered if the Founders Necklace was screwing with his head again. Reality and fantasy had become impossible to differentiate between. He was losing himself to madness.

Leah had left him, her last words striking deeper than anything he'd ever experienced before. Listlessness and anxiety had grasped him around the middle, because Leah was _gone_ and he was _alone_, and how silly was it that he had never noticed much that hurt.

Nothing drew his thoughts from her and nothing kept the loneliness at bay, for it was an enemy he had no experience fighting. The hours turned to days. He kept track of every single miserable second, because the clocks were no longer keeping time. For him, they were counting down the moments before he would wipe Leah's memory for good. She'd be lost to him then.

But, as he'd already determined sometime ago, there was no other way. He refused to bend, to be molded to the whims of a single witch. His principles would change for no one, not even himself.

Sadness and regret were two emotions Tom had never done well with. They made his stomach feel two times bigger, filled to the brim with molten hot metal that coursed through his veins. Anger was so much better—familiar, cold, small.

So he became angry, and with no one else to blame for his predicament, he became angry at himself. When had he gotten so weak? So terribly weak that even a simple girl could disrupt his thoughts. It was unacceptable. He couldn't even focus on experimenting with the Founders Necklace!

The torrent of emotion made him careless and the necklace all the more powerful. He allowed its magic to lure him in, unable to bear the whispers of stability when his life was suddenly anything but.

The necklace had taken a hold of him and refused to release its grip. The road to madness was surprisingly smooth, and filled with pleasant hallucinations. It was much better than dealing with the fact that he, the great heir of Slytherin, was useless in the absence of some girl.

At this thought, he speculated that the Founders Necklace was losing its touch, because surely if one was able acknowledge they had been going mad, they were not as far gone as they believed.

All in all, his thoughts disgruntled him. They did nothing but remind him how utterly far he had fallen. Driving himself to insanity because he couldn't deal with the fact that his hormones had caught up with him? He banged his head into his pillow. Whatever sanity he lost had most definitely been returned to him. And though hallucinating of Leah had been nice, had driven all other problems from his mind, he was quite grateful.

Tom Riddle had been alone before. He never minded it, but then Leah made him _want_. Days after he accepted it, she dashed any hope he had of keeping her. It hurt. But just as he'd been alone before, he'd been hurt before, he would get over it. He had to get over it.

Easy in theory. Hard in practice.

If only he could go back to that nice hallucination for a few moments longer—the one where Leah brushed her hands against him, said she didn't hate him for his transgressions, said she accepted him, said he was…a goof? Oh yes, that was quite like her. Tom groaned into his pillow.

"Shut up. I'm trying to sleep."

He groaned once more, this time in pain, as his arms smacked into the side of the dresser in their quest for his wand. In that moment, he changed his mind, he hadn't regained his sanity.

"Stop being a baby." There was a shuffle of footsteps, hands pulling at the blankets tangled around his waist. He didn't dare lift his head.

"Another one?" he grumbled. He'd been so sure this was real, too.

"Another what?" the voice, much smoother than he ever remembered, asked suspiciously.

"Hallucination."

He was promptly cuffed on the side of the head. The force of the blow left his ears ringing. "For someone who's supposed to be smart, you're acting like a dumbass."

Head finally hovering over the pillow, he cracked an eye open. There she was; hair distinctly mussed, her blue eyes searing holes through his skull. "Leah?"

"Expecting other female company?" she teased in reply.

"Hmm," he mumbled unintelligibly, as his stare quickly skittered around the rest of the room. There was a big arm chair that hadn't been there before in one corner, and a coat on the floor, but besides that, things seemed to be in working order. He brought his attention back to Leah.

Concern had dashed away the mirth in her gaze, and she very hesitantly felt his forehead, ruffling his hair in the process. She bit her lip, "You had a fever. I'm terrible with magic, you know that. I definitely wasn't going to try messing with your body temperature. So I did as the Muggles do. It appears to have worked, but…"

"But what?" he asked, happy to let the hallucination play out. Her hand was burning feeling back into his skin.

"But you're being very strange. Hallucinations? Get a grip. No imagination can do me justice," lips stretched tight in a humorless grin. She kept her hand where it was. "Can't you feel this?" she said softly. "Can't you see I'm real?"

No. He could not. It was too good to be true. He pressed his head further into her touch to prolong the contact.

Leah sighed. "Oh dear, the necklace sure did a number on you."

Now _that_ was new. In all of his other hallucinations, the Founders Necklace was never mentioned. It was almost as if it didn't exist. Maybe…

Leah removed her hand, rising from her kneeled position and rocking back on her heels. "We're quite the pair, aren't we? Getting beaten up, having some stupid magic fuck with our minds. But, we have each other. You took care of me, and now I took care of you."

Tom struggled to sit up, slightly shocked when two extra arms aided him in the effort. He was physically weakened and sore, more so than he was comfortable with. It was another new aspect to his hallucinations.

"Hey, look at me," the same hands that helped him were now lightly slapping at his cheeks. "I know what the Founders Necklace was doing to you. I saw you in the park; you looked like a dead man walking. You were disorientated, had bags under your eyes, spewed nonsense, all the signs were there. And then you walked out on me and I followed you back here to see you passed out. One hand was still in your pocket. I pulled it out and found the pendant burned into the skin of your palm. The wound is still there. That should be all the proof you need."

Tom lifted his hands in front of him, marveling at the fact that there was, indeed, a bandage wrapped around his left one. It stung with a dull ache, and for a long moment, he allowed himself to believe she was really there.

"Do you believe me now, idiot?"

"I am not an idiot."

"You're acting like one," she said, but she was smiling.

"This feels real, but so do all hallucinations."

"Well, shit, what do you want me to do to make you see that I'm really here?"

"Give me your arm."

Leah was weary, and Tom supposed she had a reason to be. Her mark had never given her pleasure, but nonetheless, she offered the expanse of her forearm to him.

The long and pale fingers of his good hand wrapped around the snake dancing through the skull. The skin underneath his grip sizzled, the sensation tickling him. He had never been able to recreate that feeling in the hallucinations. This was real.

With a quickness that bellied his sore appearance, Tom reached forward and fisted Leah's shirt. He flipped her over and onto the bed beside him, rolling to hover above her while his teeth ripped through the bandages confining his hand. The wound was ugly, the skin torn, burned. A muffled healing spell fixed that soon enough, and then he used both hands to leverage himself.

Leah sputtered at him indignantly, her teeth chattering as anger and fear battled in her eyes. "W-what are you doing?"

Intensity unlike any he'd ever felt settled in his stomach. Leah was there. She was real, and that meant the half-remembered conversation in the café was real as well. What had she said then? _'I care about you.'_

And even better yet, she had come _back_. The tortured countdown until he wiped her memory clean was terminated. As long as she stayed where she was now, with him, then he wouldn't dare mess with that head of hers. No one would.

Bare legs grappled with his through the thin pants he wore. It was electrifying, almost as addicting as the way her hair tickled his chest. Her eyes were wide, and he wanted to reassure her, but couldn't. Not yet.

"Leah Hume, with whom do your loyalties lie?"

She sneered in response, jerking her head to the tattoo marked upon her arm. "I think you know exactly where they lie."

"No," he corrected her gently, leaning all his weight on one elbow so he could free a hand. He peeled her hair from her forehead. "Not who you're _forced_ to be loyal to. I want to know who you _choose_ to be loyal to."

She was confused. "What are you talking about?" Her detached tone tampered into a soft and exhausted sigh, her pink lips pursed together. "Perhaps this conversation is better fit for another place?"

Tom gave her that boyish grin he knew she couldn't resist. "I rather like the bed," he murmured, instincts driving him to lower his head into her neck. She flushed beneath him and squirmed.

She could fidget all she wanted; he wasn't going to let her go. Not now, when hope squeezed his heart into a stutter. He wanted her more than anything. But he wanted all of her, and for some reason his mind kept drawing back to the cavern, when she had been prepared to die.

Who had she been protecting that was worth her life? Because that was who had her loyalty.

He refused to be second to anyone. He would get everything she had to give, or none of it. Whoever the person was, he'd replace them. She may deny him now, may push him away and cling to others, but that only meant he had work to do. Tom swore he wouldn't be the only one to suffer ridiculous dependency in their dynamic.

The hot breath on her neck caused Leah to shudder. "You didn't answer to question," Tom said into her skin.

It took a few breathless gasps before she could gather the air required to ask him for clarification.

"Who sent you to the cave," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "Who were you stealing the necklace for and who were you protecting from Grindelwald."

She gave a slight gasp when he put his lips to the juncture where jaw met neck. "I-I can't think when you—oh!" her back arched lightly and a free arm locked around the back of his head. His lips quirked upwards when their bodies were pulled flush against each other, before Leah suddenly jabbed her hip into his.

The action caused them to switch positions. Straddling him now, she put a finger to her lips. "You know, I certainly didn't think this would happen when you woke up—getting questioned and felt up at the same." Her thighs squeezed his hips and heat gathered between them.

"You aren't enjoying it?" he asked through dark eyes.

Hands trailed along her calf, all the way up to the hem of her skirt. They slipped under, grasping her thighs, fingers kneading her skin.

Tom noticed when he lost her. Blue eyes dimmed, no longer hooded, and she turned her head to the left. Her voice was harsher, "Riddle, why are you asking me this?"

"Why do you think?"

The breath left her in a swooping sigh and her finger jammed into his chest. "That's an easy one. You're trying to exploit my attraction to interrogate me." The force behind her repeated jabs lessened. Her shoulders slumped. "You know, I thought I was okay with that, but I think I'm not. Of all the things I've lost and of all the things I've yet to lose, I think I want to keep my pride. Man, I'm starting to sound like Ginny."

Tom thought as much. Manipulating her to get the information he needed certainly fit his profile. But not this time, and he was getting rather tired of stalling the inevitable. He allowed her to keep a lot of secrets, but her feelings will not remain hidden from him.

"Anyways, I meant what I said when we had hot chocolate—you're still my friend, and I won't stop caring about you, but I refuse to give this part of myself up for…for information. Shit, that would make me a whore, wouldn't it?" Leah huffed and began pulling herself away. She would have succeeded, had Tom not kept her anchored to him.

"Does that mean you won't answer my questions?" he wondered, curious.

Twisting her legs and giving him a stern glare, she said, "I'll still answer them. You're not going to be happy with the answer, and I'll probably be mortified, but hey, what else is new?"

Her response earned a smirk from Tom, "By all means then, tell me."

"You."

"Hmm?" he said absently, his fingers still dancing across her skin. "Me what?"

Interestingly enough, her cheeks colored red. "The answer to your question, you prat. You wanted to know who I went to the cave for, who I was protecting—you!"

He flipped her instantly, crushing her between the mattress and his body. "Impossible," he said, his tone shades darker and infinitely more dangerous. "You are lying."

Leah scowled, despite their closeness and the tension. "I wish."

"The consequences of lying to me now would be very great Leah," Tom warned, the threat lingering behind his words.

Through the streaks of fading sunlight slipping through the window, she smiled bitterly. "Let me show you."

* * *

Well. She was letting him go through her head again. How wonderful. Showing her most intimate thoughts to a prick who'd been trying to seduce the answers from her.

Thank Merlin she got a hold of herself. She really did care for him, more than what was healthy for her, but she at least would die with her body's dignity intact!

Morgan hadn't wanted to tell him like this, though. In her head, things had gone differently. They walked through a park while she whispered her thoughts against the wind. He leaned to hear her more closely, and she jumped him, kissing him senseless for a few precious moments before he could extract himself from her grasp and murder her.

Ah. True love.

She shouldn't have been surprised. Things never went the way they were supposed to around Tom Marvolo Riddle, so of course he was digging through her head.

Morgan wasn't giving him much—mostly flashes of emotions as opposed to actual memories.

The fingers of his probing mind dug through each offered item with a ruthless precision as he took everything she offered.

She showed him the scene inside the Room of Requirement, when he'd began kissing her. She forced him to feel as torn as she had then—how she ached to return his touch, yet felt honor-bound to James.

Next, she gave him the epiphany she had one early Monday morning in November: _'He's not bad, underneath it all. Okay, maybe he is a murdering bastard, but to me, he's not bad.'_

Then, she relived the hurricane of negative emotions that had hung over her like a cloud. Morgan thrust every angry, sad, desperate thought she had about his deceptions upon him.

The best parts came next, though. When she stood in front of the blue brick, finally admitting that things had stopped revolving around her mission and what was _safe_. Instead, she was drawn to _him_, and didn't that just _suck_ for her life-expectancy?

Her irrefutable conclusion after she had been caught by Matthew came next. She wouldn't tell them about Tom. She was adamant, and no pain could change that, because pain was something she could endure. Losing him was not.

Ah ha, the final thought. The last words she thought she would ever mull over in her head. They hadn't been about the mission, or Dumbledore, or her non-existent family. No, instead they'd been: _'I can't believe I'm dying for that stupid prick.'_

And that was it.

Morgan pushed against his invading mind, satisfied when he withdrew quickly. When her eyes refocused, Tom was giving her that unfathomable stare—the one that pierced through her soul, and man, were his eyes _dark_!

Sighing, she indulged herself in one last touch. It was innocent, a simple patting of his cheek and a small smile, because he was beautiful, and the only thing she could ever bring herself to regret was her lack of time.

"Tom Riddle," she said, "I knew you were a murdering asshole even before I laid eyes on you, and I hated you for it. It was just my luck that the attractive one was a jerk!" She held his gaze steady, "But then I spent time with you, noticed things about you. Like your insulting sense of humor, and the small considerate things you do, like not letting me die.

"You have everyone at Hogwarts kissing the ground you walk on. They think you're handsome and intelligent and kind, and they worship you for it. They love what you hide behind. But not me, I know who you really are. You're angry and passionate and hateful and manipulative and afraid. There's more to you than anyone sees, and for some ungodly reason, I actually like you for it. Not for what you _pretend_ to be, but for what you truly _are_.

"I just wanted to let you know," Morgan said steadily, her heart in her throat, "that there was one person who cared about you, murdering tendencies aside." The wry grin stretched one corner of her mouth up. "Right, you can kick me out of your room now, and get that restraining order you're no doubt itching to sign."

Legs gently tried to buck Tom's away as Morgan went to shimmy off the bed. It took her merely a second to realize the heir of Slytherin had no intention of letting her go anywhere.

He'd been silent throughout her tirade, his eyes burning her to the core. He continued to stare, his lips pressed tightly together and his body tensed. Finally, he said, "This better not be a damned dream," and then his mouth was on hers.

The kiss set her nerves on fire, and somehow her hands hand tangled in his hair and her legs around his waist. Tongues, teeth, and lips fought. Hands, legs, and chests collided. It was rough, nowhere near gentle, and it was all she could have ever hoped for.

Had she been ready to deny him, moments ago?

Surely not! Not when his lips drew to her neck and his fingers ripped the buttons of her shirt away. Not when her own limbs reached to destroy the barriers holding them back. Pesky clothes.

She gasped and moaned and twisted. He bit and soothed and grabbed.

It was the collision of two wills that were still learning to give and take, and the result was a fumbling tangle of bodies and feelings and heat—_delicious_ heat that branded every touch forever in her skin.

Then, he was inside her. Stretching, tearing, burning—it simply hurt. But pain was familiar, and pain could be waited out. It _had_ to be waited out. Because this night was hers, and nothing was going to tarnish the way his hands felt on her skin, or the way his tongue kissed circles around her heart.

So she stilled, resisting the urge to cry out in pain when the slightest shift tore at her. Instead, she froze beneath his gaze, nails digging into his shoulders, forcing a strained grin to warp her features. "Are you sure you're doing this right?"

He muffled a groan into her shoulder and bit at her ear. "Insulting as ever," he murmured huskily, hand tightening around her waist, easing her forward, moving inside her.

She grasped him close, melting when he ran his hand along her spine, gasping when he pulled her leg higher over his waist. Slowly, the fire began anew in her veins, and had there ever been pain to begin with?

They moved together. Jerky, awkward, new; the sensations grew, devouring them with growing strength and leaving them breathless.

And when it was all said and done, when the panting breaths had died into the night air and the sweat clung to them like a second blanket, it was then the doubts crawled into her mind, the regret and the guilt.

It was also when arms circled around her middle, chasing the fears away with a single whisper in her ear. "Mine," Tom breathed, the newly risen moon reflecting in his eyes.

The word meant something different this time around, so she twisted in his arms and kissed the hollow of his neck, the one spot she learned drove him crazy, and whispered, "Mine," right back.

And neither could ever remember feeling so content.

* * *

**A/N 2: In case anyone didn't get it-yes, penis was inserted into vagina. I think it's about time, don't you? Oh, and because I have a feeling someone is going to complain that it happened too fast, I'll just point out a few things.**

**1. Morgan believes she will die in two days time. She doesn't exactly have the luxury to do things properly via dates, first kisses, foreplay, etc, etc. **

**2. Tom is, well, Tom. He takes what he wants. Dur.**

**Moving on. I'm also going to assume someone will point out me alternating uses of the term "blond" and "blonde". I'm just going to point out that they are two different terms. "Blonde" is an adjective to describe a female with light hair. "Blond" describes the hair itself. So there, throwing that in, just in case.**

**Yeah. I think I'm done now. Hope y'all enjoyed. Until next time.  
**


	24. Chapter TwentyThree

**A/N: Wow. So this is late-by like four months. Whoops. But what can I say? Junior year is SUCKING. THE. LIFE. OUT. OF. ME. I can't promise that updates will be more regular, only that this story WILL BE FINISHED. So stick with me, if you will. I appreciated all the awesome reviews, and also the kick in the butt my best friend Hannah gave me. Without her, this chapter would still only be 2/3rds of the way done. **

**Hope you guys enjoy! And don't forget to drop a review to let me know what you think :)  
**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Three Last Days—Part Two**

**December 31, 1943—Day Two**

Morgan felt the hefty weight of the water soothe her aching muscles. The torrent of heat seared riveting paths down the planes of her neck and back, sometimes wandering over the curve of her chest. The steam made it hard to breathe, lent a drowsy air to the peach-tiled bath, and condensed in the empty bottles resting on the other side of the shower curtain.

Exertion pulled at the young witch's limbs, which shook every so often. The tremors were a constant reminder that death would not be delayed forever.

_'How unfortunate,' _Morgan mused, a slight smile softening the stiff guardedness she had adopted over the past few days of pain. Face upturned to catch the water across closed eyelids and delicate cheeks; she shuddered with the memory of aching touches, hot breath, and cool sheets.

When the stuffiness in the small room became too much for her small body to bear, Morgan capped the shower off and reached for a nearby towel. The terrycloth scratched irritably at her skin, and swallowed her so completely that momentary disgust flashed through her mind. _'So skinny,' _she grouched.

She swiped a hand over the bathroom's foggy mirror, perhaps to get some sick masochistic enjoyment at the sight of her deteriorating body. When it became possible to make out the reflection studying her, Morgan nearly didn't recognize it. Thin cheeks, dull hair, bony arms, disgusting collar bone, prominent shoulder blades…who was this pathetic creature? She didn't look deserving of living; rather, she looked five minutes from death.

Life was not meant to be lived in such a state.

The eyes were unrecognizable, too. They were distant, miles away. Their spontaneity was absent, as death was deserving of thoughtfulness. There was no hate, either. Her brow was abnormally smooth, _and when had she started looking so old?_

Morgan turned away from the stranger and drifted onto the closed toilet seat. Beads of water danced down her twig like legs, gathering between her toes and melding with the cool tile floor. Gaze to the wall, Morgan tapped her chin with a single finger, allowing her mind to wander to the boy on the other side of the door.

Tom Riddle had been aggressive last night, taking from her with fervor she found hard to keep pace with. The quick neediness had breathed life and passion into her, so she found it hard to complain about the too-harsh bite marks upon her pale flesh. To have someone fill your mind so completely, to cast out all thoughts but of how they smelled and felt against you…it was heaven.

She could remember the feel of his chest under her lips, the breathless quality of her voice when she spoke, accentuating each kind word with a frantic kiss.

Reality was so much harder to face after that. When waking up in the morning, the difference between _then_ and _now_ was blaringly obvious. _Then_ was heat and security and promises for tomorrow. _Now_ was empty and cold and too real for Morgan's tastes. The rising sun had found her alone in bed, with Tom sitting at a newly acquired desk, his back to her. Very few words passed between them as she tip-toed to the bathroom.

Worry chilled her veins. Was the coldness a result of Tom's displeasure? Had last night been _bad_ for him? Had she been…_bad _at it? Morgan twisted her bottom lip between her teeth, a growing ire building in her chest. How dare he treat her so dismissively when she had only days left to live!

A reckless curiosity and the desire to forget inevitable death spurred Morgan to her feet, the towel clenched in tight fists. She thrust the door open and stepped into the hotel room, fully intent on expressing her current displeasure.

"Why are you ignoring me? Was the sex _that_ bad or—"

The sight of Tom talking to a blond man with slicked back hair and a two-piece suit brought her up short. She floundered for words, heat flooding her features as she choked on unspoken thoughts. Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again. Both men had turned to her out of politeness, and the blond man raised a bemused brow in Tom's direction.

"Fuck." Heart pounding, Morgan pivoted sharply and fled back to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. She sank to the floor soon after, and smacked her head backwards against the wood repeatedly.

There was the sound of footsteps leaving the room, then of a door closing, and finally of someone approaching the bathroom.

"Leah?" Tom called for her, a kind of lazy calm coating his dry tone.

"Go away," Morgan whined. "I'm too busy trying to decapitate myself." She abused her head on the door again, for emphasis.

A snort. "Open the door."

"Go away."

She could hear Tom lean heavily against the wall while his knuckles slid along the wood. "Leah?" his tone dropped several octaves, "is something the matter?"

Morgan snorted, embarrassment keeping her cheeks aflame.

She heard Tom's hand reach the doorknob. "You know," he murmured slyly, "last night wasn't bad. Not at all. In fact, I think I'd like to show you just how much I appreciated it."

The young witch smirked at his boldness, but couldn't allow herself to forget the cold shoulder she'd been subjected to. "You have a funny way of showing it."

"I apologize for ignoring you. I was distracted this morning." He jiggled the handle.

"Is that because today's your birthday? Or does it have something to do with that mindless minion of yours that just stopped by?" Morgan heard a sharp intake of breath following her questions, and wondered when Tom would stop being surprised by the fact that she simply…_knew _stuff.

Grinning slightly, she rose to her feet and popped open the door, so that she could lean on its frame with one hip. "So what were you and that grease-ball talking about?"

Turning to lean against the opposite side of the frame, Tom appraised her. "Nothing to concern yourself with." He reached over and ran his long fingers through the wet hair bunched along her shoulders. He traced her cheeks and jaw before outlining her shadowed eyes. "You're looking thinner today, and paler. Are you feeling sick?"

Touched by the concern in his voice, Morgan shook her head. She gripped his hand to her face and willingly stepped to him, caged in by the arms that rose to meet her. The terrycloth towel fell to the ground, forgotten.

* * *

Content was a strange and foreign emotion. It bubbled under his fingertips and sparked up and down his skin. It didn't burn or cool, but rather built solidly in his veins, so that it was almost tangible.

The source of his content curled tightly against his side, the sheets pooling near the dip of her waist. He ran a single finger up the arching bones of her spine, grinned at the shiver that followed his ministrations, and sighed when he felt her clutch at him all the more desperately.

Her arms hugged him close, her nose tickled his neck, and her toes curled near his calves. Tom swamped Leah's tiny body in a way that was almost frightening. When he lifted her limp hand to his face, made her thumb brush across his cheeks, he frowned at the lightness of the touch. She was like a bird with hollow bones, and while the delicateness of her frame gave him something to protect, it made her more breakable.

Those feelings had softened his affections earlier, when he had backed her towards the bed and fell into her arms. There had been the aching thought in his mind that if he pressed too hard, bit too roughly, or moved too fast, that she would shatter beneath him.

The activity had drained her and her sleepiness made him suspicious. Hadn't she been cured of her ailments? Last night she was fine, and at school she had certainly been different—a tight ball of energy that could hardly settle for rest. The stillness was…worrying.

It was easy to admit, now, that he needed Leah to some extent. To have her love him…it felt too good to ever give up. She stared deep into the sin of his fractured soul and loved him all the more. Never before had anyone done so. They all threw themselves at his feet for the charming, albeit, quiet and brilliant boy. They never knew the monster.

Tom's thumb smoothed over her closed eyes, and lashes fluttered in response. "Hmm?" Leah murmured, stirred awake.

"Hello, Leah."

"Shut up and go to sleep," she begged in response, smothering a yawn into her pillow.

"Sleep? It happens to be past noon."

"Your point?"

"Stop being lazy."

Cool blue eyes studied him through narrowed lids. "That's not nice to say to the girl you just spent an hour or so ravishing."

"This girl should know how impatient I can be. Wake up."

Leah grumbled nonsense mockery under her breath before acquiescing to his wishes and sitting up. She clutched the sheet to her chest with one hand while the other mussed through her tangled hair. Tom found the sight endearing in a way he would never admit, and instead said, "What a wonderful birthday present."

The mention of his birthday dashed the last traces of drowsiness from her features. A small furrow distorted her smooth brow, and Tom just _knew_ he was about to suffer some form of interrogation or another.

"Why don't you enjoy your birthday?"

He sighed. "My birthday doesn't bother me."

"Yes it does."

"And if it does? Why should I tell you?"

"Because if you don't, I won't kiss you." To illustrate the threat, she clawed her way past the sheets and blanket to the end of the bed, where she reached over the edge and began picking through the pile of clothes littered on the ground.

Tom leaned back, tossing his arms behind his head. He debated, for a moment, whether or not to voice his thoughts on the matter. Feelings weren't something he spent any time talking about, least of all thinking about. Dissecting them was troublesome, and could lead to conclusions he'd hate to stare in the face.

Case in point—admitting that this stupid day bothered him meant that in some way, his disgusting Muggle father had a sick effect on his life. The dark smudge in his heritage shouldn't be worth more than the dirt beneath his feet, and to say that it troubled him meant acknowledging that it was.

Leah shrugged on a sweater that hugged her sides, and was forced to hike the sleeves up to her elbows before beginning the hunt for a skirt. When she found a suitably clean one, she slid it over her tiny legs and pursed her lips. "You…don't have to tell me, if you don't want to," she said slowly. "You're a private guy, I get that. I won't push. I was just curious."

"And why were you curious," Tom asked the ceiling, his voice a smooth, blank slate.

He felt the bed shift and found Leah worming her way into his line of sight. She straddled his torso and leaned over until their noses touched. She kissed him lightly once, twice, three times, before finally speaking again. "I want to know everything about you, Riddle, so sue me." She rolled off him and snagged a summoned brush from the bathroom, tugging it through her hair.

Tom began dressing himself, contemplating her words. "You already seem to know so much about me. Why don't you speculate?"

"Speculate on why your birthday annoys you?"

He nodded, pulling on a shirt and pair of slacks.

"I think it's because you're lonely, to some extent. You've never had a family to celebrate your birthday with, and I bet that it bothers the hell out of you that you actually care."

"Maybe," Tom conceded, begrudgingly admitting that the guess was at least halfway true. "But I'm not alone anymore."

Leah froze in the act of slipping on her shoe, a grimace crossing her features. She recovered quickly, but not quickly enough. He filed the expression away to think about later.

"Yeah," Leah spoke, softly. "Not anymore."

* * *

They did a lot of walking. Pointless wandering that gave them no more pleasure than to simply being _doing_ something. Leah would always trail a few inches behind him, skipping ahead every once and awhile to peer into this shop or that, resting her hands against the glass and breathing just a little bit heavier. When he would reach her side and ask what had caught her attention, she would grin and peel away instead of answering.

She didn't hold his hand, or make any move to touch him whatsoever. Space was kept between them, no matter how fast they traveled, or where. Tom realized that the distance annoyed him, and even that he found it slightly insulting. When he reached over to grab her flighty fingers, Leah looked nonplussed.

"People will see," she warned, shuffling her foot in the light layer of snow coating the cobblestoned street.

"Does that matter?" Tom asked, holding the door open to the shop where they had gotten hot chocolate yesterday.

"I never took you for a PDA type of guy," Leah admitted. "PDA—Public Display of Affection," she continued when he rose a confused brow.

His smile was small and understated, but it was enough to get Leah to reach over and curl her fingertips hesitantly around his. When they grabbed a small table near the back, dodging around eating patrons, she stared at their hands. "What are we, exactly?" she mused, almost-amusement laced in her words.

Tom studied the messy waves of brown hair curling around her gaunt face, how disproportionately skinny she'd had become, with shoulders seemingly too big for her body. She wasn't pretty anymore, not in any sense of the word, except for maybe her eyes.

Tom Riddle was on his way to becoming _something_, something no one would be able to ignore. He wasn't a nobody. He refused to be fade with time, he refused to be forgotten. One day soon, people would look up to him, unable to decide whether they feared him or loved him. He was on his way to perfecting the magical race and eradicating the filth that muddled its pure lineage.

So what was this hollow-boned witch to him? A mark against his perfection?

"I'm not sure," he replied steadily. And he wasn't. All he knew was that without her, he was, to some extent, lost. He thought it much more preferable to keep Leah with him, rather than learn how to cope with her away from him. Public image be damned. Besides, no matter how ill she looked, there was still something in those eyes that refused to leave him alone.

He was happy now, or as happy as he could be without manipulating someone or gaining some material possession. Why spend so much time analyzing it?

"Me either," Leah agreed. "I'm still having trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that you like me, in the sexual way, ya know. I'm still waiting for you to use me and leave me."

The admission was spoken bluntly and without embarrassment, like a statement of fact. Leah tightened her hold on his fingers in the silence, and said, "I don't want you to leave."

"I'm not going to."

Leah grinned at him and ordered two hot chocolates without breaking their gaze. "A girl could get used to this."

Tom thought she better, because _this_ was exactly what he wanted. He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles and enjoyed the interlude that followed.

"What are you going to do with the necklace?" his companion wondered sometime later, when the cream piled on top of her beverage found its way onto her nose.

Tom shrugged. "I'll keep it. Use it. The circumstances surrounding my attempted manipulation of the necklace were not ideal. I will be prepared to try again, soon."

A storm brewed over Leah's tiny features. "_Use it again?_ Are you that stupid? Just leave it alone, Riddle. It almost killed you."

"Don't patronize me, Leah," he cautioned in return. "I've searched too long, sacrificed too much, to give up on it now." He paused. "It almost killed you, too. In the cave. You nearly died for it. How can you give up on it? There is so much…power, just begging to be tapped into. Who better to learn the secrets of the founders than me?"

Leah mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "egotistical bastard" before dropping the issue. She withdrew her hand from his and took to analyzing the world outside the café.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, watching the darkness in her gaze steal her thoughts from him.

Blue eyes darted in his direction briefly. "You mean besides what a dumbass you are?" she snorted, and plowed on before he could reply. "I'm thinking about what to give you for birthday."

"I've gotten very few birthday gifts throughout the years; I wouldn't worry too much about measuring up against other presents. Regardless, I thought this morning—" his eyes darkened, "was a great gift to begin with."

Leah's cheeks warmed, but the determination in her eyes was not to be taken lightly. "That doesn't count, pervert."

"So what ideas are you considering?"

"I'll let you know when I decide."

* * *

They spent a lot of time talking, and a lot of time staying silent. A strange peace surrounded them as the day gave way to evening. Honesty was something neither had come to expect from the other, but it was what they got. There were no ulterior motives, no topics they skirted around in conversation. It was unnaturally pleasant.

Tom didn't find out his birthday gift until the sun had long since sunk beneath the horizon. They had returned to the Leaky Cauldron and sat facing one another on their bed. Leah shuffled a pack of cards with lazy flicks of her wrists, the contemplative look she had adopted in the café coming back with a vengeance. Tom reclined backwards and watched her through the dim lighting, enjoying the lethargic completeness he found in her companionship.

"I think I know what I want to give you for your birthday," she remarked blandly, splitting the deck with a half-smile.

Tom stretched his hand to the ceiling light, admiring the thick ring on his finger. "And?" he prompted, "What's my gift?"

A cautious silence permeated the air. "Uhm, I was going to give you…well, my name, actually."

Tom froze, his fist slowly clenching until his knuckles stood out sharply. "Oh?" he remarked, his tone dangerous.

Leah nodded, dropping her cards in favor of fiddling with the hem of her sweater. "Leah…it isn't my real name."

"You've been lying to me," Tom concluded blandly.

"Yes." She waited, on edge, for his reaction.

There were two ways for Tom to handle the situation, two ways of viewing the current events. On one hand, Leah—no, whatever her name was—had been deceiving him from the very beginning. No matter how many times he had bested her in their fights, she had been a step ahead, always holding a piece of herself back. It was infuriating, insulting, and the idea of it mocked him.

On the other hand, the fact that she was opening up to him now, that she _wanted_ to tell him the truth…it had to say something about her feelings. About how much she trusted him and wanted him.

If he let the anger consume him and his need for retribution take over, he would hurt her again. No doubt about it. He'd be pushing her away. Tom already knew the consequences of those actions, and had no desire to repeat them. He wasn't stupid.

"So?" he asked, propping up on his elbows to watch her, whoever she was. "What's your name?"

A large grin split her mouth open. Delight danced in her eyes and the laughing lines at their corners. "Morgan," she answered with a laugh.

"Morgan." He mulled the foreign name over his lips, found it hard to associate it with the girl who loved him. He thought the subject might warrant more thought, but then Leah—no, Morgan—was tackling him from the other side of the bed, pinning him beneath her hollow bones and kissing him with a burning ferocity he could find no reason to deny.

He swallowed every single giggle, smile, and happy murmur from her lips, taking it and claiming it as his own.

* * *

Morgan's hands swam through his hair, messing it up before smoothing it down again. She hugged him close and listened the beating in his chest, while he told her of everything that was to come. The overwhelming release they found in each other loosened their tongues and opened their minds to ridiculous promises.

"You make me happy," Morgan told him, "stupid as that sounds."

He rubbed her back in a reassuring way and smiled just for her. "Then stay with me."

Her hands stilled in his hair, and he thought the idea of such commitment might be overwhelming. Tom would just have to ease her into it, because no was not an answer he would take. Instead of pressuring her now, when the warmth between them condensed in his chest, he asked, "Will you ever tell me the truth? About how you know everything there is to know about me?"

Morgan relaxed against him, the interrogation so familiar and safe that she knew exactly what to say. She laughed, "There is so much about you I don't know. No file could ever do you justice." He promised to think upon the idea of her having _files_, when she continued, "And who knows. I never _did_ get you a Christmas gift."

They were melded together so seamlessly that Tom couldn't tell where he ended and she began. Perfectly content to watch the world pass him by, he kept her clutched against him and cast off the lights with a wandless spell.

But happiness was not something Tom Riddle was destined for.

* * *

It was well into the night when it happened.

A shudder first, a shiver that distorted her chest with frantic breaths. She twisted away from the embrace, buried her face in the blankets, breathed heavily. Her body shook and quaked, and Tom, jolted awake, stared straight into the darkness, his arms empty and cold.

Next came the coughing. A horrible wrenching sound, almost like dying. He thought maybe she was crying, too, because it sounded so damn painful. But she wasn't. She coughed and coughed and coughed, and when there was no more breath in her lungs to misplace, she gasped.

The bed shifted. Morgan rose, panting, reaching for the blankets she had smothered her fit with. She gathered them in her hands, rubbed at them, felt the wetness of them and sighed. "You're a damn liar," she moaned, rubbing and rubbing at the bedding, willing the wetness away. "You said three days."

Stumbling, coughing again, she left the bed for the bathroom, collapsed somewhere near the tub, stopped moving, never stopped panting. And Tom, alone in bed, reached over with one hand. He felt the soaking sheets and blanket, doused his fingers in the wetness and warmth, rose them to the window. The moonlight flashed red against his flesh.

Blood.

* * *

**January 1, 1944—Day Three:**

Banheart's joints ached in a way no potion or spell could ease. It gave the quiet residence a sense of foreboding, which had been abnormally empty since the brat left. Heavy footsteps preceded the woman's arrival into the kitchen, where she began opening cabinets and staring at the multitude of filled potion bottles.

She closed them moments later and moved into her living area, where a molted arm chair lay. Sinking into cushions, she sighed, relishing and hating the silence. Banheart had just summoned a cup of tea when the door to her apartment was kicked down.

"Here we go," she grumbled, and remained blank-faced when the wrath of Tom Riddle bore down on her.

"You were supposed to fix it," he said, and a chill cut Banheart's spine to pieces, not because the youth was yelling, but because his tone was silky smooth. He slashed downwards with his wand and the broken door came together.

"Is this about the brat?" Banheart asked, stoic even when the wizard dragged a chair from her kitchen, letting the legs of it trail behind him and scrape the wood of her floor. He peeled it forward, his eyes dark and intense and stone-cold. It was disconcerting, watching this young man.

"Yes, the girl I sent to you. I told you to fix her, and yet, for some reason, she's coughing up blood. Your skills are quite underwhelming."

His words froze her old joints together, and she forced herself to remember that this boy was years younger than her, a child she could curse ten ways to Sunday before he rose his wand.

"So it is worse than I predicted," she growled.

"You're predictions aren't worth much to me now," Tom said, lowering himself to the seat in front of her. He lounged in it with the building power of a predator, and had yet to release the wand he twirled in one long-fingered hand.

He carried an intimidating presence, but Banheart refused to be affected. Besides, there was something altogether odd about the situation. Realization crashed over her aging features. "She hasn't told you."

"Oh? Told me what?"

Banheart held his flat stare, and only allowed a minute amount of compassion to lessen the gruffness of her voice. "The kid's sick, and she isn't going to get better. She knows it, I know it. When she turned up on my doorstep, we agreed that I would work to give her as much time as possible. She wasn't looking to be cured."

The young man thought over the words for a few moments. He leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees, and his chin on his open palm. "So she has a sickness beyond your abilities to heal, is that it?"

The way his eyes had closed when he spoke told Banheart he was aware her abilities weren't the problem. Nonetheless, she spelled things out for him. "This has nothing to do with what I can and cannot accomplish, kid. The girl is terminally ill. What she has, no one can cure. From the sound of things, she'll be dead in a week or less. Though, all things considered, you might want to do her in before that. It will be a slow and excruciatingly painful death."

Tom Riddle left his seat to pace around the old healer in dangerous circles. "I'll take her somewhere else. Someone will fix her."

He was trying to convince himself, more than inform her, that much was obvious. Still, it was best to get those damn delusions out of his head. "No one can cure her. She will die."

Something tense in her guest snapped. "SHE IS NOT GOING TO DIE, SHE—" he paused, breathed deeply, contained his anger, lowered his voice, continued—"I won't let her." A dark, solemn promise.

Did that stupid, stupid girl really believe this young man didn't care for her? The same man who was currently walking a trench into her floor? Ridiculous. The concern was stitched under the very fictitious, very shallow cold front he hid behind. It would be terribly sad if he wasn't such a brat.

"Avoiding the truth won't make it go away. She. Is. Going. To. Di—"

Before Banheart could continue, she was thrust against the wall by an unseen force. Her bones creaked in protest against the suffocating hold, and a wand dug deep into her neck. In the boy's free hand, Banheart recognized the gnarled wood of her own wand. How he had managed to snag it without her noticing was beyond her.

An angry scowl mauled the attractiveness from his features. "What sickness does she have?"

Banheart tried to speak around the choke hold. "Her body is deteriorating at a rapid rate. Have I tried to heal it? Yes. But the goddamn annoying thing about her condition is that anything healed gets undone in a matter of minutes. _Nothing_ will keep her healthy."

"_What does she have?_" He was furious now, his voice downright icy.

Banheart wheezed for breath. "T-t-time…t-traveler."

The pressure disappeared immediately.

"Impossible."

"Exactly," Banheart croaked, rubbing her neck. "No one is meant to travel through time. Even with magic. If someone stays in a different time for too long—"

"Quiet," he hissed. "I have looked into time travel, as little information as there is on the subject. But Morgan—she—"

"Think about it," Banheart insisted, "the way the brat speaks, her attitude; they're all quite unusual, out of place."

He didn't respond. His hands shook and he clenched them irritably before beginning to pace once more. Banheart smiled the wicked old grin that made the wrinkles lining her face scrunch together.

"Ah, you see now."

Silence.

"If you want my advice: go to the girl. Do not waste anymore of her precious little time questioning me. She cares for you a great deal, and I fear would give you anything you asked."

Tom threw a scornful glare in her direction, snorting with disdain. "Hardly."

The old healer worked her stiff bones to a crumbling book case pushed up against the wall. She retrieved a dusty tome with frayed edges, patting its cover affectionately. "I have encountered three time travelers in my life, including the brat. I know this is hard. Take this book; it details all my notes on the sickness privy to those who travel outside their time. If anything, it contains concoctions that will make her passing easier."

Tom considered the proposition and shook his head.

"I shall take you, rather than the text. You will come back with me and you will treat her to the best of your abilities while I look for a permanent cure. It is nonnegotiable." He calmly pocketed her wand and stood near the door expectantly. There was an anxious air about him that no icy demeanor could belay.

Banheart's refusal to move sparked a tension between the two. Her dark eyes narrowed with contempt. "I am retired, and certainly not at your beck and call. I will not go with you."

"You dare refuse me?" he shot back mildly. His tone mocked her, as if to say, yo_u silly girl, you know nothing_ and Banheart's annoyance locked her jaw in place.

"You spoiled, worthless, bastard!" she howled. "_I dare refuse you_?" a bout of condescending laughter punctuated her words. "You child! Do you believe I can be ordered around like a filthy mongrel? Your ignorance is outstanding!"

Tom Riddle paled. He had been treated as an inferior many times before, in the orphanage and during his first two years at Hogwarts, but oh how he loathed it! He had battled such behavior with unparalleled cruelty and violence, until all who thought him to be dirt could no longer look at him without flinching. To be spoken down to again, after so many years and so many victories…

The healer could be useful; one more chance would be given. "Leave with me. Now."

"I refuse," Banheart retorted coldly, a snarl curling her lips. "I will not watch another die. The first traveler I met…I watched him rot before my very eyes. No matter what I did, no matter how many times I tried to piece his organs back together again…he would always get sicker and sicker. He lost all the muscle in his body. His skin turned gray, the nerves and vessels in his eyes burst; his tears were red with blood. He never stopped screaming or thrashing. When he stilled, it was only because he had become little more than a decaying lump of blood and bones and waste.

"You cannot ask me to watch this happen to that girl. You cannot ask me to hold her as she dies. I will not make her suffer by healing everything, only to have it burst.

"I gave up healing a long time ago, so yes, I refuse."

Tom stalked towards her with light steps, his face unreadable. When they were inches apart, he slowly pried her aching fingers from the book she held, never once breaking their gaze. "Then I am afraid…Miss Banheart…" his words were soft and intimate whispers along her flesh, "you are of no longer use to me."

She faced the jet of green light with fearful eyes and a wordless scream. The only burial rite she was given was the luxury of holding her wand—the very same wand that had been used against her—as the walls burned around her.

The newspapers would call it an unfortunate accident. A terrible consequence of one of the numerous air raids London had been subjected to throughout the years of the war.

No one would ever know better.

* * *

He found her playing cards with herself on the bed, the deck spread out before her as she sat cross-legged, clothed in just a white, button down shirt. His shirt. When the floorboards beneath his feet creaked as he crossed the threshold, Morgan tilted her head to watch him, a soft smile warming her lips.

It was one of the most inviting sights he had ever seen in his life, and he froze, stuck to the spot, because something in his mind told him to commit the scene to memory. _How long will you get to enjoy such things? _

His fury returned tenfold.

The cracked leather book flew from his hands, hitting the wall at the other side of the room. Morgan's eyebrows rose uncaringly.

"When we're you going to tell me?"

Morgan's attention returned to the game. "Hmm? Tell you what? You'll have to be more specific." She selected a card, examining it with a tiny ounce of displeasure.

Tom slammed the door behind him, hating that she didn't flinch, that she wasn't afraid. "Oh, I don't know where to begin. Should we start the time traveling part or the part where you forgot to tell me you're dying?"

She stilled. "Ah, _those_ parts..." a long pause, "well. Yeah. I'm a dying time traveler. Care for a quick game of _Go Fish_?" The words and tone were nonchalant—dismissive, even—but the bone-crushing grip on the cards, the knuckles straining against her skin, they spoke of tension and turmoil.

"The truth, Morgan."

The witch quickly lifted her stare from the bed to Tom, and back again. Her brow furrowed as she thought, and while her hands continued moving the cards, her mind drifted elsewhere. The fact that she had to even consider answering added to the rage boiling in his veins.

He jabbed his wand in her direction, causing the cards to explode into finely shredded pieces. Amidst the destruction, Morgan appeared indescribably sad and confused, reaching behind her back to retrieve a tissue to smother an oncoming fit.

Tom stayed near the door, certain that if he strayed any closer he'd either hurt or comfort the girl. Neither option was welcomed.

Morgan finished coughing with a gagging sound, her face pinched tight with pain. When it passed, she crumpled the red tissue into a tight ball, suddenly very wary. A moment of silence drifted between them, and Morgan took the time to study Tom's uncompromising position.

Finally, she spoke. "There is…very little I can tell you, but what I do tell you will be the truth. I can't risk messing the timeline up, though. So if there is a subject I say I cannot speak about, then you must not push me. Please."

"We shall see," Tom ground out in response.

Morgan flinched.

Good.

"Okay," she sighed. "Okay." She bit her bottom lip, adding pressure until it became painful. "Erm. So. I guess the best way to start is to say that the time I come from is very…chaotic. There's a war going on. Lots of people are dying. Hogwarts isn't safe anymore." A shadow passed over her face.

"The people who sent me wanted the Founder's Necklace. They said it would make things better, so I had to retrieve it. My assignment was crucial to ending the war…or some shit like that, I can't really remember."

"They sent you? Out of every possible candidate, they sent you?" Black humor softened the biting edge to his tone.

Morgan laughed, because she could see the humor too. "Yeah, pretty funny, right? The resident heroes were out on their own important mission. Every other student brave enough to stay at school was too precious to lose. They had families, they had friends, someone who cared, I guess…

"And then there was me: Morgan Caldwell. The girl with no family, the one who mouthed off to teachers and didn't complain when they fought back. They starved me, beat me, cursed me, and I kept coming back for more. I suppose that's why I was picked." Morgan shrugged her bony shoulders, a faraway gaze blanketing her eyes.

Tom's features arranged themselves into a contemplative stare. "You said your name was Morgan Caldwell. Are you related to Braxton?"

Morgan smiled, "I'm not sure. But I suspect I might. That's why I was in such a hurry to meet him, that first time I had breakfast and you introduced us."

Tom nodded, satisfied with her answer. "You told me before that your file on me didn't do me justice. What were you talking about?"

Morgan grimaced, as if reprimanding herself for letting such a thing slip. She answered though, in an apologetic voice: "They gave me a file that contained all the known information about you. They figured that if anyone was looking for the necklace, and could find the necklace, than it'd be you."

"So that's why you hung around," his voice chilled, "you were just doing a job. Is that why you came to the cave? Is that why you're here now? You're doing your job?"

Morgan didn't panic under the growing force of his anger. Instead, she gave him a pointed look. "Don't be stupid, Tom. You know that isn't true. Fucking hell, I let you into my head. You know why I went to that cave; you know I was prepared to die for you."

"Then by all means, please explain further because there certainly are some things I don't get."

A shrug. "After awhile, the mission didn't seem so important anymore. Eventually I decided to give up on it all together."

"Why? What changed?"

"I started to like you. Finding the necklace became a second priority."

A pause.

"When did you find out you were going to die?"

"I knew about the possibility for a couple of months. All those muscle spasms I started having, and how tired I was getting…it worried me. I asked Dumbledore about time traveling, and he told me what to expect. It wasn't until after the cave that I learned I had no way of getting back to my time…that I was going to die.

"I gave up on the mission after that. I figured if I only had a small amount of time left, I was going to be happy. I've already given up so much for them…they couldn't take anything more from me. My last few days, I decided I was gonna live them on my terms."

"Your terms," Tom echoed in a monotone.

Morgan nodded. "My terms. I found Banheart, had her fix me up until I was good to go for a couple days, and then I looked for you." Her cheeks tinted pink.

"And now you're going to die."

"And now I'm going to die."

Tom let her resignation sink into the marrow of his bones, found that it made him furious, and stalked towards her. "You—" he tried to swallow his despair, but failed. "You don't get to do this," he said lowly.

Mildly uncomfortable, Morgan left the bed and rose to her feet. Her calves and thighs shook with exertion; she had to grip the bedpost to stay upright. The weakness did nothing to negate the worry in her eyes.

The sight of her rapidly weakening body destroyed any control he had left. In a few steps he closed the distance between them and anchored Morgan to the wall, strategically placing one forearm across her neck.

There were more important things to worry about—surely! He should be drilling her about the future, questioning her about everything she had unloaded upon him. But Tom found he couldn't focus on that. The only thing he could think about was the feel of her body against him, the thundering pulse beating under his arm, and how he would have to say goodbye. Tom would have to live with Morgan's absence, and the idea was suddenly the scariest notion he had ever considered.

"You don't get to make me feel this way," he enunciated desperately, "you don't get to kiss me, touch me, _sleep_ with me, and then leave. You can't use me to satisfy the selfish desire to be happy for once in your life. I _won't_ be used. You—_you are not allowed to do this_!"

Morgan clutched at his smothering arm, tears gathering in her eyes, the mask of her indifference shattered into a million pieces. "I don't want to leave!" she cried, "I don't have a choice!"

He pressed tighter. "But you did," he growled, "you could have left! I was going to get over it! I was going to get over _you_! But then you came back, and you told me your stupid feelings, and you _stayed_!"

"You weren't supposed to care!" Morgan struggled, "You weren't supposed to give a damn about whether I lived or died!"

"Surprise," he snarled cruelly, inching closer. "You wanted me, Morgan, and now you have me—all of me. You can't take it back and I _won't_ give you up. You think you can escape me through death? _No_," he growled, "you don't get to leave."

Morgan cried all the harder. She cried because the arm against her neck was too tight, the heart beating in her chest too large, and because Tom Riddle never would.

The fire in his eyes burned brighter. "You are not going to die." He leaned forward and locked his lips against hers, the kiss bruising and punishing and a promise of a forever they didn't have.

Even when Morgan's lungs burned with another fit, he didn't release her. He kissed her even as her lips trembled and her chest heaved, even when she tried to break away to cough. He kept her still under his touch and swallowed every gut-wrenching sound of agony.

When he was finished, both of their lips were coated in her blood. He said again, "I won't let you die."

Morgan's face softened, and she tried to smile. Her eyes spoke for her. _We'll see._


	25. Chapter TwentyFour

**A/N: Ask, and you shall receive. The chapter is really short, but I think it gets the job done. Tell me what you think! And thanks for all the reviews/faves/alerts! They really make my day, ya know? Be sure to drop a line, guys!**

**:)  
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* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Four: An Ending and a Beginning**

"Do I know you, in the future?" Tom asked, a lazy hand caressing her neck. His thumb and forefinger chased each other over the thrumming pulse just under her gaunt jaw.

Morgan relished the warmth of his skin and rubbed her lips together, trying to work thoughts into words with the stale breath in her lungs. "Kind of," she croaked.

"Kind of," Tom repeated, thinking on the words while smoothing his touch across her forehead. "Can I ask what you mean by that?"

"You can ask…doesn't mean I'll tell you." The familiar, saucy grin fought against the pale sickness of her features.

"Must you always keep me guessing? Stuck in the ever annoying throes of ignorance?"

"But you make ignorance look so…"

"Intimidating?"

"Charming, actually."

Tom laughed and Morgan smiled more easily. "I've only met you once," she began, "and I tried to kill you."

"Déjà-vu for me, huh?"

"Actually, I don't think you recognized me."

"Impossible," Tom declared blandly, "as if I could ever forget the bane of my existence."

Morgan declined to tell him the so-called bane of his existence would become a newborn baby. That was still years and years away.

"What did I say to you?"

Morgan had to ponder that question for a few minutes, recalling her one encounter with Lord Voldemort. "I think you said I reminded you of someone."

Tom smiled at the ceiling of their room. "So I did recognize you."

"Maybe," Morgan hedged, reluctant to say more. Her companion seemed to notice the hesitant way she held her arms, for he changed the subject.

"How are you feeling today?"

"Okay."

It was their useless, ridiculous routine. Every day, every morning, he would inquire about her health, ignoring the obvious signs of deterioration. She always responded in the positive, even though she could taste death on her tongue, feel it rushing through her veins. They were so good at lying, why stop?

Tom twisted on his side, so that he hovered over her prone form. His chest was bare and pale, and only on display because she had once mentioned the feel of his skin almost made her feel alive. When he leaned down to kiss her, it was with a soft gentleness that spoke wonders for her condition. If the future Dark Lord was controlling himself for fear of hurting her, then she really _was_ entering the last leg of her journey.

"You taste cold," he murmured through their kiss, "almost…"

"Like death? Way to compliment a girl Riddle. You really are a charmer."

He frowned at her and sat up, reaching for a cooling cup of purple-brown liquid that had the thick consistency of a milkshake. With his free arm, Tom shifted Morgan so that she rested against the headboard of the bed. Since losing function of everything below the waist, she had been absolutely helpless.

"Drink up," Tom said, cupping her chin.

Morgan dutifully downed the concoction like a shot of bad liquor, even though it did very little. The potion dulled the pain and left her numb, sometimes making it hard to even talk, but nothing else.

"I'll brew some more, and maybe something to fix your spine again. Then, you can soak in the bath. If you ask nicely, I might even wash your hair for you." He smirked, knowing exactly how much she appreciated the feel of fingers curling against her scalp. Manipulative as always, Riddle had merged promises of pain with a slight reprieve of pleasure.

"Don't bother," Morgan said.

He rolled his eyes and slid off the bed. "Okay, no bath. But you don't smell that great. You'd be doing me a favor."

"I'm not talking about the bath, Tom."

He stilled in the process of slipping on his shirt, neglecting magic because working with his hands was gratefully distracting. "Oh? But whatever else could you mean?"

His voice had gone deceptively soft and gentle, like it always did whenever they had this conversation.

"Tom…please…I'm begging you."

It was the first time she had stooped so low.

His fingers faltered on the last button and when he turned to face her, his gaze stayed trained to the floor. "Ask me anything but that."

"If you've ever, for a second, loved me—"

"Love? You silly little witch, whoever said I loved you." His mocking words coursed through her like ice. "How presumptuous."

Morgan gritted her teeth, jaw locking tight. She turned away from him and refused to meet his eyes.

The bed dipped under Tom's weight. He straddled her waist and leaned forward until their noses touched. "I'll brew the potion. In a few hours, you'll be up and walking like this never happened."

"No." Morgan weakly slapped at the chest suppressing her sore body, frustrated and angry. "I won't drink it, Tom. I _can't_!"

The grip he anchored around either side of her head went taut. "Do you think you can say no to me, silly little witch?" gentle whispers of breath warmed her lips and his eyes were impossibly dark. "You'll drink the potion, even if I have to immobilize you and force it down your throat." His mouth closed the distance between them, claiming hers in a deep kiss that she tried to twist away from. When that failed, she bit his tongue, watching his fast retreat with no small amount of satisfaction.

"You should have told me you liked biting," he grinned and grabbed one of her limp hands, pressing his lips to her palm. She watched him shrewdly, waiting for…_something_, when she felt the scrape of teeth along skin.

Tom never increased the pressure of the bite, instead choosing to nip at her hand in a shiver-inducing way that left Morgan squirming. He teased the skin all the way up her wrist, to the crease of her elbow, where he stopped and studied her. "You'll drink it," he said again.

Morgan found, frustratingly enough, that she was fighting back tears. "I can't Tom. Stop asking me to do this—to drink your stupid potion and feel better, only to be paralyzed once more! I hate it, it hurts more than you could ever imagine, and I won't do it."

"No," he spat, and tumbled away from her.

"Now I know you don't love me," Morgan said to his back "if you did, you'd let me go. That's what I need, that's what I want—just let me die. Now. It's over."

Tom threw her a disarming smirk from over his shoulder, though the humor didn't even come close to reaching his eyes. "You're right; I'm too selfish for anything as ridiculous as love. I'll keep you here as long as want, no matter how much it hurts."

Morgan sighed when he left their room and slammed the door shut behind him. She touched the dampness on her cheeks with her fingertips. "No fair," she mumbled, "If my stupid spinal cord was working, I would have totally stormed out of the room first. Woulda done it with a lot more flair, too."

* * *

For the third time in his life, Tom Riddle was in a Muggle pub. Disgustingly dirty and worn down, the establishment couldn't boast the most upstart of citizens. Rather, its tables were occupied by the dregs of society, throwaways of the Muggle world, second-rate citizens in an already subservient society.

It was as far away from magic as one could get, and for once, Tom craved separation from that world. Every charmed photo, awry spell, or pair of robes only reminded him of what magic was doing to the girl in his room, of the fact that magic was the reason they had met in the first place.

He hated it so much that he was overcome with desire to submerge himself in a world where magic was a long lost fairytale.

"Girl troubles?" a soprano voice asked, tone mockingly understanding.

Tom turned his head to study the wiry man taking a seat next to him. A cap hid the man's hair, and his shirt was plain and dirty, but the military issued pants and boots gave away his occupation. One arm was coddled in a worn-down sling.

"Shouldn't you be on the frontlines?"

"Shouldn't you be in a more kid-friendly place?" the man returned in his high voice before laughing.

"I suppose that depends on what you tell the bartender," Tom remarked, not at all worried because he had already charmed the owner with a fairly simple spell.

"I'll keep your secret if you keep mine," the man gave him a foxy grin that warned of the soldier's mischievous nature. He waved the tender down before Tom could respond, and said in a voice deeper and scratchier than usual, "One beer, please."

The portly man with whiskers decorating his chin and cheeks reached below the bar and grabbed a brown, dirtied, bottle. He popped it open with a glare, sliding it over the wood and holding a hand out expectantly.

The soldier smiled, though it was a lot more understated this time. In fact, his whole demeanor had changed. Before where he had been spritely and quirky, he was now serious and tormented, the features of his face devoted to selling the façade. "Thanks," he grouched, and awkwardly tried to reach for his pocket with the arm not in a sling.

The bartender raised a thick brow, leaning over the bar to watch. He caught sight of the military clothes and injured arm.

The soldier noticed the study and scowled. "Just got kicked off the lines for this. Spot of shrapnel damn near ripped my arm off." He pushed a handful of money towards the tender who suddenly shook his head.

"On the house soldier."

The soldier said, "Now there's the goddamn gratitude I've been killing Germans for," and accepted the establishment's generosity by raising his free bottle in recognition of the tender's kindness.

Tom watched this with mild interest.

Once the bartender had moved to attend to other customer's, the soldier returned his attention to Tom. "You should see the response I get in the more up and coming pubs—people go absolutely _nuts_ for the sling. I could swim in all the free alcohol!"

Suddenly understanding the man's earlier words, Tom almost smirked. "You're posing as an injured infantryman for free liquor?"

"Not exactly. I'm a part of a medical unit stationed behind the lines. I'm still a part of the war effort, so I'm not a _total_ bastard."

Tom thought the Muggle, had he not been worthless trash, would have done well in Slytherin. There still wasn't something quite right, though, and he nursed his own glass of whiskey while pondering what bothered him about the fake soldier. When he studied the hand the man had curved around the beer, he found it to be smooth and slim.

Thin body, high voice, smooth hands…Tom laughed at the oddness of the situation. He had wanted to forget Morgan and what he found was a seedy bar and a female nurse dressed as a man. He revaluated his opinion of the girl and found her to be more dangerously foxy than he originally imagined.

The girl noticed his appraisal and smirked. "Smart boy." She stuck out a hand and didn't appear the least bit offended when Tom made no move to shake it.

"My friends call me Scab."

"And everyone else?"

"Never get to know I'm there." She looked positively devilish in the dim lighting. "Just the way I like it."

Tom studied the girl. Where Morgan's features were tiny and pixie-like, hers were common and adaptable, changing from boyish to feminine depending on the way she held herself. Now, with her guard slightly lowered, they looked girlish and aristocratic. A thin, straight nose and finely sculpted cheeks gave her an air of importance; large, doe-like eyes, fleshy lips, and curving eyebrows hinted at a charming and flirty disposition.

"So tell me about your girl problems."

Tom debated whether or not to ignore the comment, eventually deciding it could do no harm to get a little advice. He was certainly at a loss. Morgan infuriated him with her casual talk of death and the way she wished for it so desperately. Death was…_terrifying_. He was dedicated to cheating it, no matter the cost or consequence, and then there was Morgan, ready to face it fearlessly. This, coupled with the deception and general annoyance of their relationship, should lead to him hating her. Instead, he couldn't let her go. What was he supposed to do?

"She wants to leave me, for good."

Scab snorted, "So? I don't see the problem. Leave her first."

"That's atrocious relationship advice."

"You want advice," the medic leaned towards him, her eyes—a sparkling hazel color that shifted from an edgy brown to mixed green—narrowed. "Here's advice. In a relationship, it's the one that cares the least that holds the most power. If her rejection hurts you, reject her first. It happens to be rather simple." She straightened abruptly, knocking back the rest of her beer before slipping to her feet in a graceful movement. "Come with me. Looks like you could use some female company."

"Are you offering?" he asked incredulously, stuck between disgust and disbelief.

Scab's direct stare was unnerving. "I'm debating whether or not I want to slap you. Considering that you appear to be extremely troubled, I'll let the comment pass." She stood at an impressive height, and motioned for Tom to do the same. "One night, half price, cleanest girls in London."

Tom sneered in disgust, appalled now, more than ever, at the uncivilized nature of Muggles. "How quaint," he mocked, "a woman selling the bodies of others."

Scab easily maneuvered her injured arm to the side—a sharp contrast to her earlier and awkward movements—so that she could reach in her pocket and retract a slightly curved cigarette. She slanted a look at Tom that analyzed and dismissed him in the same moment. "Whatever pays the bills, eh?" she mumbled around the tobacco, lighting it up a second later.

She pivoted on her heel and said, casually, over her shoulder, that the offer would stand for the rest of the night. If he looked hard enough, he'd find her.

The emptiness the irritating women left made Tom feel cold and unnatural. He didn't recognize the darkness of the bar, the normalcy of its occupants. He couldn't understand these lesser people—couldn't understand how a woman could pose as a man, smoke a cigarette, run a whore house. This world didn't make sense to him, and it scared him. Almost as much as the kids with bloodied elbows and knees, who pushed and shoved him into a closet because he liked to read, who kept him locked there for five hours, crying and feeling so terribly alone.

He hated them.

* * *

Tom wasn't looking, but he found her. On the outskirts of the seedier part of town, right near the edge of stability and promise, she hugged the shadows of a building like a disease. She had discarded her sling, and against the stark white bandage, traveling all the way up to her shoulder, he could make out the distinct stain of blood, almost black in the lack of light.

Scab was smoking again, using the brick wall of the shabby building to support her comfortably. Her thread cap had been ditched, and thick strands of light auburn hair scratched at her features. She watched a group of three men knock on the front door of the worn whore house. A large man welcomed them, the warm glow from inside outlining his imposing form. He leaned against the frame so that the men could scurry past him.

Once that had been taken care of, he descended the steps and turned to the left, where Scab still leaned against the building's wall. He spoke to her in a low tone that made his words impossible to make out, and then, handed her a fistful of cash.

Disinterestedly, Scab pocketed the money, leaving without a word. She caught Tom's eye from across the street and gave him a wanton, beckoning smile, attractive despite the blood, the dirt, and the smoke.

And Tom thought, with a hateful vengeance:

_One day, I will kill you all._

_

* * *

_

The Muggle streets left his skin feeling too tight, and Tom was more than happy to return to the warm fire roaring in his room at the Leaky Cauldron. Regardless of the fact that the sun was rising, Tom planned on sleeping away the confusion and uncommon fear the previous night had instilled in him.

He had been seeking an escape, but found no relief. His deep-seated disregard for Muggles had been reaffirmed, and perhaps that made his decision concerning Malfoy's visit those days ago easier to make, but did little else.

Tom scrubbed at the bridge of his nose, shoving the door open with his hip. What he found froze the blood in his veins.

Morgan was still, slumped on the ground near the bed, the small table near it upturned. Her hand was unmoving, and the wand resting in her uncurled fingers long-since used.

He nearly tripped over his feet to get to her, pressed searching fingers to her pulse, and thought, _God help them if she is dead. I'll kill them; torture them until they beg for death. If those Muggles took me from her, distracted me from her, god help them._

Morgan's eyelashes fluttered along his cheek, where he had pressed his face in abject distress. "Tom?" her voice was a mere whisper.

A jerky movement left Tom rocking back on his heels, so that he could more easily see her. Her blue eyes were glassy and her skin, pale. His hands started shaking and for the first time, since the day he had been locked in that closet, he felt completely helpless. "Morgan," he muttered, holding her face, memorizing ever single crease in her skin, "don't do this. Don't leave."

She smiled weakly. Tom thought he was going to be sick. "I thought," she paused to lick her lips, "that you had…ditched me. Silly wizard." The words were so incredibly soft.

_Too soon! Not nearly enough time!_

His words thrown back at him had never seemed so forebodding. "Silly little witch," he said affectionately.

Morgan sighed heavily, her chest rattling, her heart stilling.

_IT CAN'T! I WON'T LET IT! _

"It can't end now," Tom said, monotonously. "Not yet."

"S'been fun," Morgan mumbled, as if her lips were heavy with sleep. "Love you."

_Love you. Love you. Love you. Love you._

Had anyone said those words to him and actually, _heartbreakingly_, meant it?

No.

The world had taken a lot from Tom Riddle. He would not let it take her.

* * *

It was different than she imagined it. Wholly foreign, yes, but not scarily so. It swam through like a calming current, slowly but surely sweeping her up in its grasp. Her limps were heavy, but it was her eyes that were leaden.

And the pain…how could something she had learned to carry these past weeks disappear so suddenly? Gone, like ashes scattered in the wind.

Death wasn't so bad. It was like stepping into a dark room and losing yourself in the shadows. It was like falling asleep, and feeling enough comfort and security to relax in sleep's grasp.

And, if the last thing in the world she saw was Tom Marvolo Riddle, that made it okay, too.

* * *

He was the first thing she saw in the world, her eyes new again, seeing again; her limps moving again, feeling again; her heart pumping again, beating again. Morgan gaped at him, uncomprehendingly, staring as he kneeled beside her bed, his hands shaking so much they could scarcely still for a second. He kept his head down, and his back shook.

A weight felt heavy in the middle of her chest, and sluggishly, she trailed her eyes downwards until they found the gilded beauty of the Founders Necklace. How curious.

Morgan tested her hand, inched it forwards until her pinky brushed his palm. Tom went rigid, and before he could do anything else, she enclosed one fist with her own, her breath heavy with life and the possibilities and the love.

She laughed or sobbed, she couldn't tell which (maybe both) and said, "You just couldn't let me go, huh?"

Tom let out a gust of air, but made no movements towards her. In the end, it was Morgan who leaned down delightedly, snagged his loose tie, and pulled him onto the bed. "Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom," she murmured over and over again, her voice high with glee. "Oh you silly wizard!" she kissed every inch of his face she could find, and then moved to his neck, clothed shoulders, hands, fingers, anything!

"I'm…" his brow furrowed, "if I open my eyes, will you still be here…with me?"

His voice was soft and unsure and quivering.

Morgan threw her arms around his neck, tightened them and never wanted to let go. She kissed his mouth in quick succession, speaking in between her physical declarations of love. "You-silly-stupid-wizard! How-could-you-use-the-necklace! You-might've-killed-yourself!"

Cracking his eyes open, Tom studied her with a gaze so intense, it burned. "You silly little witch," he said slowly, "I told you I would never let you go."

He grinned at her, his entire face alight with triumph, his cheeks red, his hair mussed, and kissed her back with ten times more ferocity.

When they were both assured the other wouldn't disappear in a puff of smoke, Morgan held his hand with hers and smiled wonderfully. "I thought it was the end…I thought…"

Tom, lying next to her, content with her hand, said, "We're just getting started."


	26. Chapter TwentyFive

**A/N: This chapter is long over due, but you already knew that. Hopefully the next one will come out faster. Though I must admit, we are approaching the end of this tale...kinda...depending on the way I swing it. ANYWAYS-onwards!**

**Oh, and as always, a million thanks to those who reviewed/fave'd/alert'd. Your continued feedback means the world to me. I sincerely apologize for making all you wonderful people wait so long!**

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**Chapter Twenty-Five: Into The Library **

**or**

** And You Thought The Plot Was Nonexistent, Ha!**

"You know what's funny," Morgan began thoughtfully, "I actually thought that Ravenclaw was going to piss himself." She grinned toothily, an expression Tom Riddle caught over the edge of his textbook.

He rose a brow in return. "I hardly bit his head off. Besides, it is quite rude to storm into one's compartment without knocking, even if their reason is sound." He closed his large tome with a self-suffering sigh and languidly slid to his feet. After methodically straightening his tie and robe, he leaned down and kissed Morgan soundly. "I shan't be long."

"I certainly hope not. I might actually do my homework if you are."

"And what a shame that would be." Tom departed from the Hogwarts Express compartment, closing its door and stalking towards the front of the train.

The Ravenclaw that had been the subject of Morgan's teasing was a Prefect sent to collect the others for a meeting with the school Heads. The interruption had been most unwelcome, as Morgan has just reached across the divide between their seats to play with his motionless fingers. He relished the casual declaration of affection, and loathed leaving the intimate atmosphere.

He schooled his features into a polite smile of indifference and entered the Prefects meeting. Minerva, the Head Girl, stood stiffly next to Marcus Prufoot, the Head Boy. Both had been at odds with each other all year long, the Slytherin and Gryffindor rivalry instigating explosive arguments revolving around conduct and method.

Tom Riddle slipped into line with the other Prefects, listening patiently as the meeting paddled along slowly, until finally, Prufoot took the first shot at his counterpart over the schedules. "Really, Minerva, such lengthy patrols are unnecessary. It's the train ride, and everyone's back from the holidays. I hardly think a large fight is going to break out."

Minerva's cheeks colored an angry red. "H-hardly necessary!" she sputtered indignantly. "Prufoot, we, as a collective group, are the student authority our classmates look up to. To treat our positions with such disregard!" Here, she paused. "No, absolutely not. The schedules stand. Johnson and Maxwell will take the first round; everyone else is free to relax until their turn. But when you're on patrol, _don't slack off_."

Prufoot rolled his eyes. "Just do what you're told, got it?"

The Head Girl shot him an accusatory glare, and he responded, "There really is no need to be so theatrical. You Gryffindors make everything seem like it is of the utmost importance."

"Patrolling _is_ of the utmost importance, you imbecile!" Minerva snapped.

The introductory insults were taken as the dismissal they were; one by one the Prefects left, Minerva following behind the crowd and dislodging Prufoot's casual position against the door jam with her shoulder. Tom sulked quietly in the corner until he was alone with the Head Boy. Then, he casted a silencing charm.

"Prufoot," he said indifferently.

Marcus gave a quick and unnecessary glance around the small compartment. He leaned forward, his eyes shining with excitement, and said, "My Lord."

* * *

In the school hierarchy, Marcus Prufoot was Riddle's superior by default. Being Head Boy did have its privileges, you know. But this was so much bigger than school. He wasn't talking to Tom Riddle, sixth year Slytherin anymore, he was addressing Lord Voldemort, an inherently charismatic and dangerous man who had more power running in his veins than Marcus could ever hope to imagine.

He still remembered the day when Tom Riddle had ceased to be just another scrawny brat. It had been a little over a year ago, in the common room, where the glow from the fireplace had casted an eerie glow on Riddle's face. A green snake as thick as his wrist had been wrapped around the boy's knuckles, and those curious dark eyes had glinted in the light with triumph and power. With the stares of the gathered dozen bearing down on him, Riddle had spoken the language of serpents. Heritage proven, he hardly had to ask for the attention of his brethren; they listened, enraptured, as he wove tales of a future held in the balance by their actions alone. He promised power and protection with his mere presence, and backed his words up with the release of the basilisk shortly thereafter.

Tom gave them all a purpose, a reason to really and truly live. And oh, how natural it seemed to spend hours plotting the demise of the filth that mucked the purity of the Wizarding World. Salazar Slytherin's Great Cause.

He was Lord Voldemort and they were his Death Eaters, and the names left the taste of glory in their mouths.

Keeping his head bowed, Marcus ventured forth with anticipation. "Malfoy informed me that his cousin spoke to you about the next step. Is it true? Are we to finally take further action at Hogwarts?"

Voldemort considered him with eyes that seemed far too cunning. "I believe so." He raised a hand for silence at the exact moment Marcus considered speaking, impressing his self-appointed servant (though the bond of Lord and slave would not remain voluntary for long). "However, it is imperious that we act with the utmost of caution. We work collectively, as a group. Individual action is foolhardy, and the consequences will be...unpleasant at best, agonizing at worst. This is an issue I will impress upon our compatriots at a date and time of my choosing. Until then, you need to exercise patience."

Marcus Prufoot nodded eagerly. "Yes my Lord. I understand completely. I will inform the others and we shall wait for your command." He inclined his head, felt the weight of Voldemort's consideration, and decided that the man could see through his soul.

The compartment door slid open and shut, and Prufoot was left alone.

When Tom Riddle started his walk back to his own compartment, his latest meeting weighing pleasantly and anxiously on his mind, he heard the beginnings of a scuffle. He didn't see the source of the commotion until he quickened his steps and entered another train car.

What he saw elicited a groan of exasperation from his lips.

There was a group of students in a tight knit oval around two young women. One, of course, just had to be Morgan Caldwell. The other, surprisingly, was the normally cool-tempered Violetta Fanding.

"You lying, foul, bitch!" Violetta howled. "Y-you said you were dying! No owl...no visit after what happened!" She waved her wand frantically, and a white flash of light flung towards Morgan. The young woman in question ducked, and the Stinging Hex struck the chest of an unfortunately curious Hufflepuff.

"Violetta," Morgan encroached. "Please, let me explain-!"

This time it was the Flipendo spell, and it hit its target. Morgan was thrown backwards into one of the compartment doors, her head hitting the glass with a prominent 'bang'. When she shook her head free of the stars dancing circles around her vision, she found Violetta advancing on her.

"I cried for you." She paused. "You're dirt, Leah Hume, and if you ever so much as look at me again, I'll strangle you with your own spinal cord."

"I think that's quite enough, Fanding," Tom declared coolly, having finally pushed his way to the center of the impromptu duel. He inserted himself in front of Morgan and leisurely slid his wand into his hand. Fanding registered the motion and retreated a few steps.

"It matters very little. We're finished now." She casted her eyes to her audience and had time to growl, "What are you looking at?" before Braxton Caldwell came sprinting from the other end of the train. He shoved other students out of the way until he reached his girlfriend, whom he drew into the circle of his arms. He had the audacity to glare at Tom.

"What's this all about, Riddle?"

"Miss Fanding attacked another student." He remarked in a polite, disinterested tone, though his stance in front of Morgan did not relax in the slightest. Braxton noted this wearily, and unconsciously inched for his wand.

"I wouldn't do that, Caldwell."

It was at that moment when the Head Girl and Boy arrived.

"WANDS DOWN!" Minerva yelled. "GOOD GODS, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?" She was huffing and out of breath, but still managed to assert a strict authority into her tone. She instinctively turned to Tom for an explanation.

"Violetta Fanding attacked one of her housemates, Leah Hume." He leaned down and slipped an arm around Morgan's waist, who was curiously quiet. With little effort, he levered her against his body.

Marcus Prufoot took this moment to dispel the other gathered students. "Back to your compartments, you nosy bastards! Sod off now or I'll be taking House Points." He sneered at a group of Gryffindors, which included Charlus Potter, Kayden Macmillan, and James Darley, the last of which who had gone deathly pale.

With the crowd taken care of, attention was turned back to the matter at hand.

"McGonagall, I am sure Violetta wouldn't attack someone without provocation." Braxton tried to reason.

Tom Riddle sneered. "Are you sure about that, Caldwell? Fanding continued to attack, even though Leah did not have her wand out."

Minerva looked to Morgan, who had maneuvered her way out from under Tom's arm. "It was just a misunderstanding, McGonagall. There was no harm done."

Tom snorted disdainfully. "Certainly not!"

Minerva frowned. "I would think that you'd want to minimize the damage to your House's Points."

"Not now. What Fanding did was inexcusable."

Violetta, red-faced, snapped, "If you had any clue about what type of absolute filth that liar is-"

"Enough!" Tom started.

"Don't talk to my girlfriend like that, Riddle!"

"Cut it out!" Minerva snapped. "Fanding, do you deny the accusation?"

Violetta pulled herself to an impressive height. She stared through Morgan with a curl of distaste distorting her full lips. "I don't deny it. I simply gave Hume what she deserved."

Morgan stared back, equally impassive.

"Very well. We shall sort out your detention when we arrive at Hogwarts with your Head of House. Intending harm to a fellow classmate is a serious matter. But for now, I can at least tell you that fifty House Points will be docked."

Prufoot's brow rose incredulously. "Is that necessary, McGonagall? Hume said there was no harm done. Surely-"

"Put aside your prejudices for a moment, please, Prufoot. You're embarrassing your House." Tom said coolly. "I'll escort Miss Hume back to her compartment." He grabbed Morgan's forearm and guided her back to the front of the train, leaving the others to deal with the poor Hufflepuff passed out near the duel site, the Stinging Hex having inflamed and engorged his chest.

When they reached their previous compartment, Tom eased Morgan into a seat and studied her intently. He casted a silencing charm before speaking. "Are you okay?" he asked gently, reaching forward to touch her head. He rubbed the sore bump softly.

"It's fine. I've suffered through worse, believe me." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.

"What happened back there? I leave you for five minutes and you're engaged in a duel, you silly witch."

"When I thought I was going to die, I told Violetta. I've just been...so happy, I guess, these past few days...I forgot to tell her I was better. Oh man, I bet she talked to that grump Banheart and the old witch told her I had died."

Tom felt a surge of pleasure at the fact that he had taken over her life so completely. He hated sharing his things, and imagined that the feeling would be more intense when it came to people.

"I tried to explain myself to her...but she wouldn't listen. Not that I blame her. Now that I think about it, though, what in the world would I have said? 'Oh no, Tom just used this ancient and powerful artifact to bring me back from the dead, an artifact I fought sea monsters and shit for. Nothing out of the ordinary.'" She sighed heavily, brushing her slightly curled hair over one shoulder and directing her gaze out the window. "I'm going to miss her. And though I've never had any qualms admitting my faults, some of those insults...coming from a friend..."

Tom kneeled in front of her, cupping her face in his hands. "You don't need her, Morgan. You don't need anyone; you have me." He closed the distance between them and kissed her fiercely, pushing her back until her body was pressed against the wall. He let his hands explore the skin underneath her neatly buttoned shirt while his lips worked a circuit down one side of her neck and up the other. He prided himself on the small gasps she let escape from her pursed lips.

When he pulled away her lips were red and swollen, and when they tweaked into an almost-there smile, he pulled her in for another kiss. It was awhile before they parted.

"Where will you put the necklace, anyways? Once we get to Hogwarts." Morgan asked, out of breath.

"A safe place," Tom replied steadily.

It was at this point that the train pulled into the station, and the Hogwarts students left their compartments in an orderly fashion. Tom and Morgan were separated by Tom's Prefect duties, and so Morgan was forced to share a carriage to school with some younger Ravenclaws. They stared at her suspiciously. Had it been earlier in the year, Morgan might have made some snarky remark about their wands being five inches up their asses, but as it was, her snarky attitude was hard to summon.

There was so much weighing on her mind. Back in the small room at the Leaky Cauldron, with Death right around the corner, it had been easy to choose Tom Riddle over the future fate of the Wizarding World. But now, after being faced with Violetta's wrath, she was harshly reminded that the universe consisted of more than just her and Tom.

She loved Tom. But was she selfish enough-_cowardly_ enough-to let her feelings justify watching him turn into the monster she'd known in the future?

_I don't know, and I don't want to think about it._

She made it to the Great Hall without further incident and found herself at the end of the table closest to the staff. There were empty seats surrounding her on all sides, and she felt more isolated than ever. Tom Riddle was sitting in a neat circle of his mindless minions, as far from her as he could get. They had already discussed, prior to leaving the Leaky Cauldron, that it would be better if their relationship was kept a secret; Morgan didn't want the infamy and trouble that came with dating him, and Tom was on his way to cultivating an inhuman and godly image for his followers to worship. The need for companionship was a human desire. He wanted others to think him above it.

So she was alone.

_Funny. This feels just like last time, when I had been branded a Death Eater. Except...it's worse._

Dejectedly, Morgan pushed peas around her plate. Her form was filling out nicely, now that she wasn't sick all the time, but it was only a small highlight to an otherwise bleak looking term.

Dinner ended and she made her way to the Sixth year Slytherin dorms, whereupon entering she found herself completely ignored. Violetta wasn't kidding when she said 'lower than dirt'.

Morgan slipped into sleep with a burdened mind.

* * *

_A library._

_Sprawling bookshelves._

_A cozy circle of chairs._

_Four people._

_"She'll have to do, I suppose."_

_Blurry forms._

_A fire._

_And then..._

_Warmth._

* * *

It seemed no one wanted anything to do with her. The Slytherins had not changed their opinions of her, even the ones who thought she had been sleeping with Tom before Christmas (she found this immensely funny, considering her nighttime activities these days). The Gryffindors looked at her with disgust, for James Darley was adored and admired by most, and a strike against one in their house was a strike against all.

The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws had heard enough to know it was better to stay away.

The loneliness was easy to ignore at times, when she found herself examining the possibilities of the future. Had she had friends to notice, they would have found her curiously withdrawn and contemplative, not at all like the quirky, outspoken witch of last term. The decision left in her incapable hands was huge; it would affect the entire world, and she didn't want that responsibility. Ever.

But it was one she would have to make soon, for pressure was weighing in on all sides.

* * *

"Miss Hume, I must say I am surprised to see you this term. You appear to be in good health."

"Er...yeah. Spot of luck. The holidays did me some good."

"Yes, I suppose they do everyone a good service. The terrible thing about holidays, though, is that they can prompt us to forget the things that matter the most." Cue adjustment of half-moon glasses and a semi-serious eye-twinkle (how did he _do_ that?). "And sometimes the temptations they offer can turn out to be dreadfully dangerous..." Cue a pregnant pause. "I myself have seemed to have gained a good deal of weight from all those Christmas sweets. Especially Lemon Drops."

"Euhmmerrrr."

"Regardless, I am glad you're feeling better, though you seem to be awfully quiet as of late. I suppose you have something big on your mind?"

"You could say that..."

"Anything I can help with? Sometimes it does help to bounce ideas off another."

"...No..."

"I trust you'll figure it out and make the decision that is best. You are one of my favorite students you know? Now off you go, before you're late to another class."

_Why me?_

* * *

She stood in front of the mirror a week after term had begun. She had been terrified of attempting it earlier, for fear of the results, but had no other distractions at her disposal. So she stood there, staring at her reflection, and willing the hair on her head to melt into mousy, lifeless locks, sickly green in color.

Nothing happened.

There was something wrong with her…something inside of her… She felt sick and terrified all at once, because if she was not Morgan Caldwell, the Metamorphmagus witch, who the hell was she?

* * *

_The library again._

_Robust laughter._

_Quiet contemplation._

_Calculative judgment._

_Small smiles._

_"She'll do fine."_

* * *

The first one to end up in the infirmary was a fourth year student whose parentage was dubious, if not unknown. He had been the recipient of a curse that dislocated all the bones in his right arm, wrist, and hand. Morgan heard him crying when she passed the Hospital Wing. He would not be the last.

That same night Tom Riddle took her for an unplanned visit to the Room of Requirement. He pressed her to the bed and kissed her everywhere. Afterward, he traced lazy patterns against her stomach and told her that things were changing.

Morgan was shocked at how easy it was to burrow her feelings of discomfort and guilt. At that moment, she didn't care what Tom did or didn't do to some fourth year, all she cared about was how warm his chest felt under her cheek.

She was a terrible person…and maybe it was time to accept that.

* * *

A few weeks later, and Morgan was shocked speechless when Charlus Potter approached her during a free period.

She was lounging underneath a tree along Hogwarts Lake, enjoying the sun, when a rather large shadow ruined her tanning experience. She cracked an eye open and choked on her breath.

"Quite the surprise, huh?" Charlus laughed rather uneasily. He shifted on his feet for a moment before coming to a decision and sitting beside her.

"I suppose."

"You've become awfully quiet."

Morgan cleared her throat uncomfortably. "I've discovered that people don't really care for what I have to say."

Charlus shrugged.

"What? You haven't noticed? I don't think there's a person in this castle that would voluntarily stay in my company long enough to ask for a dropped quill...speaking of which, why are you here? Not that I don't appreciate it, but unless you state your motive, I'm going to have to assume you're here to hex me…which has happened enough in the past few weeks, I might add."

Charlus rolled his eyes and elaborately gestured to the wand shoved deep in his pocket, referencing his innocent intentions. "I came to get some answers," he began haltingly, though he was slowly warming to the topic. "I just don't understand how we fell apart. Things could have been different; if you really wanted, you could have tried to fix our friendship or explain why you shattered our best friend's heart. But you didn't. And what you said to him, it was so completely out of character. _It doesn't add up._ And since no one else wants to investigate…well, here I am."

"Things would be a lot easier for the both of us if you just decided to hate me like everyone else. Heck, even I hate me; I blame it on my complete inability to put the good of others before my own happiness." She gloomily ran her fingers through the grass.

"There you go with those cryptic comments. Just tell me what's going on. We're supposed to be friends." Charlus clambered to his feet, crossed his arms, and looked down his nose at her.

"Intimidation techniques?" Morgan wondered, smirking.

"Evasive techniques?" he bit back.

Annoyed, Morgan said, "There's nothing for me to explain. I'm a bad person; a snake through and through. There is no conspiracy or mystery to solve. Just forget it, okay?"

"You obviously have never had a friend before, or else you would know that I'm not going to give up on you. I know the type of person you are, even if you've forgotten."

The words struck her straight to the core. When it a appeared as if the whole world had turned against her, when she struggled to find an ounce of good in herself, it seemed that someone else had. Morgan felt sharp stab of affection for Potter. She smiled with exasperation, shaking her head. She suddenly knew that, if anything, she wanted at least one person to have faith in her. "Maybe you're right, Charlus." She rose to her feet and glanced at the setting sun. "It's getting late. I'll see you around."

How strange; just when she thought she had herself figured out, something made her realize she didn't know herself half as well as she should.

Behind her, under the tree by the lake, Charlus Potter spoke to the air by his right shoulder. "Happy now? I told you there was something else going on."

James Darley emerged from the invisibility cloak, a frown on his face. "She seemed so lonely."

Charlus laughed. "Why couldn't you have fallen in love with a Hufflepuff?"

James glared halfheartedly. "You forgot to warn her about the attacks."

"Anyone with eyes and ears knows that students are being attacked."

"They'll go after her."

"She can take care of herself."

* * *

_A high-backed chair._

_"There could be a bit more common sense in there, but she'll do."_

* * *

They caught her on a late night stroll from the kitchens, a handful of red vines clenched in her fist. A pair of arms appeared from the darkness and constricted around her waist while another hand held up a wand and knocked her unconscious.

When she awoke she was on the floor of an empty classroom. Morgan couldn't see the faces swathed in darkness, but it wasn't too hard to guess. Mini-Death Eaters.

"Your half-blood status and negligible behavior makes you _filth_. It is our job to eradicate such dirt from the Wizarding World."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," she said, but since her mouth was bound, it came out more like "Meruhm bee fuuuhhhh mhhe."

One of the voices, which she recognized to be Abraxas Malfoy, spoke. "I happen to have come across a very interesting curse. It is supposed to burn the skin off one's body, or blister it senseless at the very least."

That did not sound promising, but with all her limbs tied, the most Morgan could do to protest the situation was roll over. And then, not even that, for Malfoy had waved his wand with a smart series of jabs, and a burning fire stole over her entire body.

The pain was never-ending, and didn't stop when Abraxas released the spell. She felt her clothes sink into her skin, and the burning became so great that her vision colored white and she fell into unconsciousness.

It was a good deal later when she awoke, her mind reeling with her latest dream. When she became aware of her surroundings (the infirmary), she clawed her way into a sitting position, despite the soreness and tenderness of her skin. Morgan placed one hand, unusually warm and hot, against her forehead and tried to concentrate on the fleeting images dancing across her mind.

Her brow furrowed. She could recall faces this time: two men and two women, in the same library, sitting together in that familiar cozy niche, each in a position of relaxation. It was all so familiar...yet she couldn't grasp the significance of it, and that was maddening.

Frustration overwhelmed her, and the pain across her body suddenly became too much. She was too hot, too confused, and too damn angry. The tears that came seemed only natural.

Why couldn't she have just died in that stingy hotel room? Why did Riddle have to save her life? Living was so much harder than death. How easy it was, to condemn the world when she no longer had to live in it. This battle raging inside her—to do her job, or to stay with the man she loved—was literally tearing her apart. Just when she thought she could stay with Tom, she was forcefully reminded of something:

_The world is not as bad as it seems; there are people out there, friends who I admire so much, who are so fundamentally _good_ it hurts._ Here she thought of Harry Potter and his selfless, seemingly impossible mission. _I was willing to live and die for those people, not so long ago._

And now this. Her body was incredibly sensitive, sore and itching, yet tender and burning. She tried, desperately, to remember what put her in this state, but there was a wall of forgetfulness inhibiting her progress. She could remember the sweet sticky taste of licorice in her mouth. There was nothing more.

Morgan sat dutifully in bed for the rest of the day. She followed the mediwizard's orders mechanically, sitting up when requested and submitting herself to prodding exams. When evening was beginning to set, she spoke up.

"Do you have any idea when I'll be released?"

Ackley paused on his way to his office. "Another few days and you'll be set in working order. Until then, sit and relax. I will contact the teachers and ask them to send your homework along." He placed a tumbler of a dark, chunky potion near her bedside. "Drink this."

She did, and fell into a dreamless, hazy sleep that was only interrupted by bouts of feverish delirium. It was a cool touch that roused her from unconsciousness. Morgan squinted into the darkness while gently squeezing the hand grasping hers.

"Morgan," Tom Riddle murmured, touching her hot forehead. Morgan nearly wept with relief at the sensation. She studied Tom, a small smile decorating her face. She had missed him.

He was neatly dressed, as always, but his hair was slightly mussed. She noticed that he had drawn curtains around the bed and loosened his tie. Under her scrutiny, he reached into his robes and withdrew a small jar. "You've only been out for a day. It was this time last night that you were attacked." He unscrewed the cap of the jar before vanishing her thin infirmary gown. "I mixed this for you; it's a paste that will help the burns." Tom frowned, studying the stark redness of her body with displeasure.

Unabashed by her nakedness, Morgan moaned at the coldness the cream brought when he spread it across her torso, arms, legs, back, and face. He worked diligently and quietly, stopping only when the jar was empty. Morgan smirked and went to sit up, only to find her body was too weak to support the effort. Tom reached over and helped her upright.

Once she was settled against the pillows, Morgan let her curiosity take hold. "Do you know what happened to me? I keep...I'm trying to remember...but I just can't."

Tom propped his head against one arm, his lips thinning. "You were cornered and attacked by a small group of Slytherins. Malfoy was the unfortunate individual that had the audacity to curse you. He came to regret his decision immensely."

For some reason, the words sank like a rock to the pit of her stomach. "You cursed him back?"

"I _tortured_ him."

"But...why?"

Tom gaped at her. "Are you kidding me?" He studied her grim expression and snorted. "You're not. Typical."

"I just don't understand. When you're little followers attacked the other students, you didn't punish them. My parentage is just as unknown as that fourth year's, but he was cursed, no problem. It doesn't seem fair."

Tom scowled irritably. "Don't be so dense. I don't care for any of those mudbloods. They mean nothing. You are important." He reached for her hand again, but Morgan withdrew it. A thunderstorm began brewing over his features. "What?"

"Your minions...they listen to you. Is there any way you can get them to stop?"

"I have no desire to get them to stop, and even if I did, I couldn't ask them to. They are antsy. They want action, and if I were to deny them, I would hardly have their support. My leadership is too precarious to begin inciting such displeasure." He swept to his feet and began pacing, his eyes hard. "And why does it matter to you? It's none of your concern."

"I hate it, Tom! I've been harboring this _guilt_ for weeks, because I'm sitting back and watching others suffer!" Morgan was breathing heavily now, months of frustration slipping through her clenched fists.

"This is who I am. I've never pretended to be anything different. You've known this. You said you accepted it." His voice had gone deceptively soft, and he stalked towards Morgan with predatory steps. When there was only a few inches of space separating their faces, Morgan tried to twist away, but Tom gripped her chin forcefully. "Were you lying?"

Morgan submitted herself to his gaze, jaw locked tight. "I wasn't. But then again, I thought I was going to die." Her tone was resolute and sharp with conviction. "I love you Tom. I just don't know if it's enough anymore. I don't know if I'm selfish enough to put my happiness before the wellbeing of others."

"You want to leave me. After everything that has happened, you want to leave." He jerked to his feet, already shaking his head. "Impossible. I won't let you."

Morgan raised her eyebrow. "Won't let me? You think you can stop me from walking away?"

"You think you can live without me?"

Morgan thought of Charlus Potter, and how he had said he would never give up on her because he remembered the type of person she was. The words gave her confidence, but also incited doubt. He believed in her, but what if she really wasn't the person he thought her to be? What if she wasn't that curiously thin girl anymore, the one who stood in the Great Hall, surrounded by Death Eaters, ready to face the darkest wizard of all time? At times she felt like that person. But other times…she had horrible, mean thoughts: who cared if they all died? They hated her regardless, it would serve them right. Life had never been kind to her…she had never had something to live for…until now…until Tom.

Tom was staring at her curiously, waiting for her answer. But Morgan was wracked with indecision. "I don't know what I'm doing."

"Don't you remember when I said I would never let you go? Not until I'm done with you. Not to mention the fact that you're too close to Dumbledore. You know too much. I'll have to kill you before I let you leave, and I really don't want to do that." He smiled and it was ugly.

But Morgan was shaking her head rapidly, grasping onto the very few things she was sure about. "You don't control my life, Tom."

He turned his back to her and appeared to be considering something. It was awhile before he turned around again, having come to a decision. It had been so long, in fact, that Morgan was in the process of nodding off when he approached. He kissed her hard, almost distracting her from the wand pressed to her temple. He then pulled back a few inches to whisper a memory-modifying charm against her lips.

* * *

It didn't take long to wipe her memory. There wasn't that much he had to modify. Tom only needed to make her forget the connections she made between the attacks and his followers.

With a sigh, he summoned a new infirmary gown and pulled a thick blanket over Morgan's prone form. She was asleep again, and her brow was tight with pain. He smoothed his hand over it, feeling the tenderness and heat and getting furious all over again. Malfoy had paid dearly for his indiscretion. Not only had he acted independently, but he had cursed Morgan, and that in and of itself was deserving of severe punishment.

She was too big a target, he thought morbidly. Her flippant attitude, unknown blood status, and lack of friends made her the perfect victim. He realized, now, after weeks of being back at Hogwarts, that their relationship could no longer be kept a secret. She needed the protection.

Tom held Morgan's hand briefly. "You have become far too serious," he muttered, thinking on her new, stoic countenance. "I miss the ridiculousness." He left the room, his mind wandering to other things, because if there was one thing Morgan was right about, it was that the attacks on students had become far too frequent. It was time to pin the assaults on someone before suspicion fell to him. Dumbledore was always snipping at his heels.

* * *

It was evening when Morgan awoke, feeling lethargic but clearheaded. Her burns were beginning to itch, but they didn't hurt that much, and when Ackley came to inspect them, he was happy with the results. "You can probably leave now, but just to be safe, I'd like to keep you for the rest of the night."

"Sure thing, doc," Morgan grinned. "I have no pressing matters to attend to" She tried to sit up, but there was a heaviness in her arms and legs that was impossible to overcome. She settled for leaning comfortably against her pillows. "Just send up some food and I'll lay here for the rest of the year!"

Ackley eyed her with bemusement before returning to his other chores. This left Morgan to her own devices, which mostly consisted of picking at the stitches in her blanket and pondering the ever-mysterious library dreams. There was something else, she thought, that should be bothering her, but for the life of her, she couldn't remember what.

The monotony was interrupted a little while later, when Morgan received her first official visitor. She was drinking pumpkin juice, contemplating whether or not she wanted to eat, when James Darley walked into the infirmary, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world. It was awfully similar to the first time they had met, when Charlus and Kayden had forced him to approach the Slytherin table. The similarity sent a stab of nostalgia straight to her heart.

Morgan watched him cautiously, the little lamplight in the room casting shadows that hid his eyes. When he reached her bedside, he sat stiffly in the visitor chair and immediately began tapping his leg. After a long stretch of silence, during which they regarded each other wearily, he spoke. "How are you feeling, Leah?"

Morgan nibbled on her bottom lip. "I'm fairing okay."

"I told Charlus to warn you...I knew they'd try and get you. I..." He paused, and said, "I hate speaking to you when I can't see your face." He waved his wand to light the lamp above Morgan's bed and froze. "_Leah-!_" He had noticed the bright red color of her skin and the receding blisters. "_What did they do to you?_"

"That's a good question. Whatever it was, it was nasty and hurt like hell."

James reached out, like he wanted to touch her, but pulled his hand back almost instantly. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to protect you."

Morgan nearly swallowed her tongue. "You couldn't have known, James. Regardless, it's not like I would have deserved it anyways." She sighed, nibbling on the inside of her cheek. It was a moment before she leaned forward as best as she could. "_Please_, James, you shouldn't be here."

The scar across his face crinkled when he frowned. "And why not, Leah? And while we're on the subject—why did you break up with me? Why were you so horrible? _Why did you use me and then toss me aside, like I'm worthless?_"

Morgan could practically feel his anger and confusion, and could tell he had been wanting to have this conversation for awhile. She had hurt James terribly because of her selfishness. She had led him on and then thrown him away, and it had been _so easy_ to say she was doing the right thing when she didn't have to see the consequences.

"You're not worthless James." Morgan said, realizing more than anything that she wanted to console him and take everything back. "You're great, really, I—"

"Don't give me that condescending bullshit. I want the truth. I want to know why. W—"

"Shut up and _listen to me!_" Morgan leaned over to grab his hand, hissing in pain when they made contact. James winced, horrified, and tried to slip their hands apart, but she was relentless. "Listen carefully, James Darley. You. Are. Not. Worthless. You are a kind man capable of great compassion, even to those who have wronged you in the worst possible way. Don't ever think otherwise. Don't you fucking dare let what I did ruin you, or make you believe that you are anything less than a great man, one of the greatest I have ever met—not me, not some up-their-ass blood purist, _no one_." She was heaving by the time she had finished, and drained of energy, so she slumped against the pillows.

James stared at their entwined hands, the tips of his ears pink and his lips pursed. "Why wasn't all that enough?"

"Because I was falling in love with someone else. I had let our relationship progress because I was lonely and scared, and I wanted affection, even if I couldn't get it from the person I was interested in. That day on the train, I ended it because I didn't want to hurt you anymore. I thought that if you hated me…I thought, then, that it would be easier to move on."

James shook his head, his eyes narrowed in what could only be righteous anger. "You never loved me?"

Morgan was done with lying. "I liked you, and had I more time, perhaps things would have been different."

"What do you mean, 'more time'?"

But Morgan's attention was on something else—there was a ring on his left hand, a wedding band. "Y—you're married?"

James blushed deep scarlet, and it took a lot of stuttering and frantic breaths before he could get his story out. "My parents set me up with a young Muggle woman. They had the engagement arranged for months, apparently, without my knowing. Without you—well, I didn't see any reason to say no. She's young, quiet and polite, but she's nice."

"What's her name?"

"Margret."

"She sounds lovely. Are you happy?"

"I still want—," James broke off and composed himself, "with time, yes. I think I can love her."

Morgan nodded, satisfied. "Good. I want you to be happy."

"What about you? Are you happy?"

"Sure." She smiled but it didn't reach her eyes. "Just a bit lonely."

"I know," James said. "Are you free to leave the infirmary?"

"Ackley said I could go, but I don't fancy seeing everyone right now. I'm still tired, actually." She shrugged. "I'll probably wait to leave."

James shook his head. "It's almost time for dinner. Let me take you down there. As friends," he added hastily when he noticed Morgan dubious expression.

A grin, the likes of which hadn't graced her face for many weeks, lit up the room. "Yeah, okay. Let me get dressed!"

James stepped away from the bed and pulled some curtains over. He waited for her to change patiently, fiddling with the sleeves of his robes, his heart pounding painfully fast and loud in his chest. It took awhile, but finally, Morgan emerged. Her face was bright red, the color standing out more sharply against the black of her robes. The contrast was hilarious, and he had to work to keep his chuckles in.

Morgan swatted at his arm anyways, and then swayed dangerously. "Still a bit woozy."

James nodded. He offered his arm, which she took graciously, and led them towards the Great Hall. It took them some time to get there, since Morgan had to stop every once and awhile to catch her breath. A look of fear morphed her features when such moments occurred, and that worried James very much.

The response he received when he led Morgan to the Gryffindor table was even more troubling. Many of the gathered students shot her disbelieving glares. The only friendly face in the crowd was Charlus Potter. He was elbowing Kayden Macmillan in the stomach, who had a twisted scowl on his face.

James gently guided Morgan onto the bench while Potter spoke in a hushed whisper to Macmillan. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Potter said, "Hey Snake Face."

Morgan grinned at his teasing tone, "Always a pleasure Charlus." She directed her gaze, uncertainly, to Kayden. "Hey, Kayden."

Macmillan grunted in reply.

James graced him with an annoyed glance. "Leah is a friend."

"She has a funny way of treating her friends."

The comment stung, but was so incredibly true that all Morgan could do was shrug. "I guess I'm a Slytherin for a reason." She put her elbow on the table and propped her head against it. "How were the holidays? I know it's been months since Christmas, but still."

"Okay," Charlus said. "I went to James' wedding, met some of his family and scared the living daylights out of his pompous, stuck up cousin. I spent a lot of time with my parents. It was rather uneventful."

"I can't believe you just called my wedding 'uneventful'!"

Morgan could feel heady warmth and happiness creeping into her gut. It felt so normal to be sitting with a handful of Gryffindor friends. She realized she wanted to immerse and situate herself into their lives again, even if she didn't have the right to. "How is your family, James? Since the bombs…?"

To her surprise, he grinned. "My grandfather died and we came into a spot of money. My parents bought a nice house in the country, away from all that war ruckus."

Morgan snorted into her goblet of plain water; she didn't think her suddenly nauseous stomach could handle much more. "You sound awfully upset by his passing."

"He was a nasty old man," James grinned.

Morgan turned to Kayden. "What about you?"

The boy in question avoided her stare for a few seconds before he sighed loudly. "All-bloody-right! If we're all so determined to put the past behind us and be buddy-buddy—! I went to James' wedding and snagged some pretty girls around town."

"What about you?"

Three expectant faces studied Morgan, who hurriedly brought her cup to her lips and drank deeply, so deeply, in fact, that she began hacking a terrible cough. Charlus reached across the table and pounded her on the back. "Okay there?"

Morgan swiped a hand across her face and weakly asked for some bread to help clear her throat. James obliged and passed the basket to her, but as soon as its weight settled into her upturned palms, her forearms shook violently.

The bread spilled to the floor. Morgan stared at her hands in absolute horror, noticing for the first time, the spots of blood from when she had wiped her mouth moments before. Her stomach lurched uncomfortably. She wasn't even aware she was standing until she had to brace herself against the table, her legs unstable.

James was on his feet immediately. "What's wrong? Do you need the Hospital Wing? Leah—" he reached for her but she stumbled backwards.

"I have to go!"

And she fled from the hall, her departure noticed by a few curious eyes, none the more curious than Charlus and Kayden.

"I wonder what's eating her," Potter murmured.

"I told you she was mad," Kayden retorted.

* * *

At the other end of the room, Tom Riddle watched Morgan leave, with a feeling he recognized as worry building in his chest. He pushed off his bench and stalked after her, his steps long and determined and his ears deaf to the questioning calls of his housemates.

She wasn't hard to find, as she had only traversed a few corridors before stopping to catch her breath. When she spotted Tom, she held her arms open for him. He swept her up, crushing her to his chest. "What's happening?" he demanded.

"It's happening again! It's starting all over, just like last time! It feels the same! Damn it!" she held onto Tom, clutching the edges of his robes. Her eyes were wide. It was one thing to wish for death, it was another to wish for the weeks of agony that would come with a time-travel related demise.

"Slow down!" he barked. "What do you mean?"

They were in the middle of an empty hallway. Discretion was the last thing on their minds, however, when Morgan pulled his face close to her own and whispered, frantically, about the muscle spasms and the blood. When she pulled back, Tom looked furious.

"No."

"Kill me now," Morgan begged, hopelessly terrified, "I don't want to do that again, I don't want to suffer—!"

"Shut up!" Tom snarled. He backed away from her, wondering about how things could go so ridiculously wrong so soon. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Morgan reached for him, but he batted her hands away. "Go to the Room of Requirement. Wait for me there. I need to arrange a few things. And damn it, DON'T DO ANYTHING STUPID!"

"O—okay." With a small nod, she turned and left, keeping close to the wall for support.

Tom walked quickly to the Great Hall, where Dippet had just stood to deliver news the school had been most anxious to hear. "The culprit responsible for the recent, unfounded attacks on your peers has turned himself in and will be receiving a full and harsh punishment for his crimes."

All around the hall, voices broke out.

"I heard it was Avery!" someone at the Ravenclaw table said seriously, "They say he snapped. Couldn't take it anymore. Must have had some family issues."

"Well, good-riddance. He was foul!"

Tom contorted his features into a concerned grimace while a few of his fellow Slytherins smirked. Malfoy was the exception, of course—he stared blankly at his plate of food, flinching whenever his eyes rose and caught sight of Tom.

"All of our students are safe at Hogwarts, and such actions will not be tolerated! Let this be a lesson to any who would wish harm upon their peers." Dippet's tone was grave. "We must, in times of great peril, be able to rely on one another and trust in our friends. We cannot let prejudices tear us apart, we must stand together to face the conflict and war that lies not far from our borders."

The Headmaster was talking about Grindelwald of course, and at the reminder, many of the students let their eyes drift to Dumbledore. Who else would inevitably stand against the dark wizard?

Satisfied with the proceedings, and with anxiety and worry swirling in his gut, Tom bent near Marcus Prufoot. "Arrange for someone to cover my patrol." And without waiting to see whether or not his demand would be met—for who would deny _him_?—he sped from the hall in a flurry.

When he reached the seventh floor, he found Morgan waiting and panting. Without a word, he gripped her forearm and yanked her to her feet. He waited, on edge, for the Room of Requirement to appear and dragged them both inside.

The room was plain. There was a fireplace with a couch resting in front of it, but nothing else. On top of the mantel of the fireplace, however, rested a necklace set in gold. The runes carved in its frame glittered in the light from the flames, its four gems deceptively beautiful.

Tom tossed Morgan to the couch and walked to the mantel. He leaned over the necklace and breathed over it. Curiously enough, the air around the artifact shimmered before fading. When Tom turned around to face Morgan again, the Founders' Necklace was clutched in his hand. "It will fix you."

Morgan watched him advance wearily. "And if it doesn't?"

"It will."

He licked his lips and carefully drew the chain around her neck, arranging the pendant so that it rested right on her chest, underneath her robes. The effect was immediate. Morgan sucked in a gasp of air, her eyes going wide. She grimaced as her ears popped and pressure built in her head. She was aware of Tom shaking her shoulders, but couldn't hear a thing. A dam was building, it was pushing against the walls of her mind, threatening to overtake her at any second, and when it did, her world went black.

* * *

"THIS AGAIN!" Morgan screeched, "REALLY? WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?"

She was surrounded, on all sides, by bookshelves. They ran from the floor straight into the air, where there was no ceiling in sight, only more and more books. The air was curiously light and breezy, and everything seemed to glow from the inside out. The whole scene was rather ethereal and insubstantial, and maybe beautiful, but Morgan was too angry to notice.

Those weird dreams she had been having…they were all about this library. Infrequent snatches though they were; Morgan recognized the overarching shelves and the labyrinth structure.

Growling incoherently, because she was at a complete and total fucking loss as to what the fuck was going on, Morgan leaned against one of the shelves, slowly slumping to the ground. She periodically began pounding her head on the wood, wishing with all her might that she could be back at Hogwarts with Dumbledore's Army.

The sound of her head making nice with the bookshelf overshadowed the soft footfalls heading her way. But though her hearing was impaired, her vision was not, and Morgan saw a young robed witch turn the corner.

She was beautiful, a kind of beautiful that did not exist anymore. Brown and curled waves of hair hung to her waist, shining from the inside out. Sharp features decorated her face—pleasant cheekbones, intelligent eyes, and plump lips, which only served to compliment her willowy form. She was so gorgeous, in fact, that Morgan would have been rendered speechless if there wasn't such a look of fury plastered on the pretty face.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"

And because Morgan was so frustrated, she yelled right back, "TRYING TO KILL MYSELF YOU TWAT!"

The witch looked suitably offended. She recoiled, her lips puckering into a scowl of disgust. "Why you insufferable little—!"

"Rowena, bring her here! We've waited ages." The voice was masculine and came from around the shelves.

Morgan died a little inside.

"Rowena Ravenclaw?" she asked meekly.

The witch in question sneered, "Oh _now_ she shows some respect!" A wand was pulled from her finely cut robes and waved in a swift fashion. Several books that were in danger of slipping from the never-ending shelves slipped back into place.

Morgan jumped to her feet. "Am I insane?"

"Hardly," Ravenclaw sniffed, turning on her heel and retracing her steps, expecting Morgan to follow.

Which she did.

The library was, indeed, a labyrinth. There were so many forks and sharp turns, all littered with books and maps and slips of parchment, some which had been taken from shelves and never replaced. It took at least a half an hour for the duo to get where they were going, because Ravenclaw stopped every once and awhile to select some tome from the floor and mull over its pages. Morgan was getting quite annoyed, and made an effort to step on any pieces of wayward parchment she could find. Rowena was most displeased.

By the time they reached the cozy niche that Morgan had become so familiar with in her dreams, she had developed a slight disliking for the Ravenclaw house founder. While the uppity witch might have all the time in the world, Morgan certainly didn't!

Rowena had led her to three others. They were in a pocket of the library free of bookshelves, where a roaring fire seemed to burn as bright as the sun, its glow casting everything in a brilliant light. In fact, it appeared as if they light that illuminated the library and its occupants from the inside out came from the fire itself, which changed colors at different intervals—gold, red, green, silver, blue, and yellow. The shades of the colors were so diverse and deep that one could stare at them forever. It was beautiful.

"A real work of art, don't you think? One of our best creations!" A loud voice exclaimed as a large hand smacked down on her back. Her knees actually buckled. It was at this time that Morgan remembered she was not alone.

There was the man who had spoken to her. He had the beginnings of an unmanageable beard, but a kind face, with open eyes and a mouth constantly quirked into a smile. He was bulky and wide, muscled and toned in a way that made Morgan drool.

The other man was decidedly less attractive. He was tall and bean-pole thin. His skin was pale and he had a small mustache. There was a mop of black hair atop his head that fell a little past his shoulders. He bowed when he noticed her scrutiny, and whether it was to mock her or welcome her, Morgan wasn't sure.

The last was a plump young woman, who had waves of red hair and the most innocent, welcoming smile Morgan had ever seen. She felt instantly at ease with the woman, but as the truth of just who those people were swept over her, she fell to her knees.

A couch was conjured instantly, and the good looking one settled her into it. "There you are, young lady."

"Yes…" Morgan muttered weakly, "here I am."

"Shall we introduce ourselves? You have the lovely Rowena Ravenclaw, the pleasant Helga Hufflepuff, the cocky Salazar Slytherin—" the man near her pointed at the skinny one, "—and me of course; Godric Gryffindor at your service."

"Oh…swell…"

Arm chairs appeared facing her in a semi-circle, and the Hogwarts Founders shifted into the comfortable furniture nicely. The force of all their stares was a little overwhelming. Rowena adjusted her robes, Salazar fiddled with his moustache, Godric placed his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, and Helga smiled openly.

"I trust you have a lot of questions," Salazar remarked blandly, as if they were discussing the weather and not her sudden appearance in some fantasy realm.

"Just a few."

Godric gestured for her to continue eagerly.

"I mean, I can pretty much sum them all up into one question, and you'll have to pardon my language, it has been a tiring day but—_what the fuck is going on?_"

"So eloquent."

"Shut up Miss-Smarty-Pants-Let-Me-Look-At-Every-Slip-Of-Parchment-On-The-Fucking-Floor Ravenclaw! I am _not_ in the mood!"

Godric snickered.

Hufflepuff decided to take the reins on the conversation. "Is it safe to assume that you have found our Necklace?"

"Yeah, Founders Necklace. Been there, done that," Morgan said weakly. "What is that thing, anyways?"

"It is us," Ravenclaw said simply.

"And what are you?" Morgan paused. "Oh god, don't tell me you're a horcrux!"

"Of course not!" Godric looked offended by the very idea. "Disgusting!"

"We're something more substantial than memories, but I assure you, I did not put my soul in here with these—anyways…You see, when we were young and had just begun working together, we pooled our powers together to test our limits. We crafted a beautiful necklace and we each poured a little of ourselves into—a little of our power, and little of our mind…pieces of ourselves that would remain dormant until the right time." Salazar picked at the arm chair he was resting on. "It wasn't entirely taxing."

Godric's nose was scrunched up. He looked like he wanted to hit something.

Morgan opened her mouth to speak, but Ravenclaw interrupted her with sharp and keen eyes. "Think carefully, girl, on what you want to say. Ask the rights questions or we'll be here for an eternity."

Morgan scowled, but obediently began to think through the situation thoughtfully. It took a few moments to get over the 'WHAT THE FUCK' feel of the whole ordeal, but weirder things had happened…

Well, no, they hadn't, but still.

"Okay," Morgan began, selecting her words carefully. "You created the Necklace to test your powers, but what purpose did you want it to serve?"

Rowena smiled, and she looked lovely doing so. "We wanted to create an object that would amplify one's magic with our own."

Morgan's jaw dropped. "Are you kidding me? That's dangerous! L—like super dangerous! LIKE IF VOLDEMORT FINDS OUT EVERYONE IS _FUUUCKKEDD_ DANGEROUS!"

"Calm down," Gryffindor said, holding his hands out in a placating manner. "We know it's dangerous."

"Shut up, you banshee," Slytherin scowled.

Morgan gave him the finger. He looked somewhat puzzled by the gesture.

She sighed and drew in a breath to calm down. "Look, I'm sorry, but you don't _understand_. There's a dark wizard, and he's going to come into power in a few years, and it'll be _horrible_ for everyone, and with this power…"

"Ah-ha-ha," Godric tutted, "but he won't have this power. _You_ have this power!"

"Come again?"

"Do you recall when I said the pieces of ourselves that we placed in the Necklace were to remain dormant?" Slytherin asked. At Morgan's nod, he continued. "That is because they were waiting for the right person to try on the Necklace."

"One who would have the loyalty of a Hufflepuff!" Helga said.

"The courage of a Gryffindor!"

"The intelligence of a Ravenclaw."

"And the cunning of Salazar Slytherin himself."

They all looked at her expectantly.

Morgan snorted, tears streaming down her face. "Oh—god—you can't be serious! Me? The intelligence of a Ravenclaw? The cunning of a Slytherin! Ha!"

Salazar was disgruntled. "Well yes, as you can imagine, after waiting for thousands of years for the right person, we lowered our standards."

"We wanted someone balanced, who would have power and intelligence, but the loyalty to know what to do with it, and the courage to act on it. We wanted someone who would exemplify all of Hogwarts' Houses, and when you tried us on…We looked into your heart. I saw you take on opponents with twice your talent and twice your size to save a friend. That is loyalty."

"I saw you face down a nose-less wizard with dark powers that would cause anyone to squirm. That is courage!"

"While you are not adept at charms, I saw you learn to read by yourself, and succeed in your non-practical subjects. So yes, there is a bit of intelligence in you."

"And I," Slytherin said softly, "saw your darkest ambitions."

Morgan shivered. "Out of everyone in the world…you chose me?"

"We've been waiting a long time, and only three other people have tried us on—an idiot who couldn't tell left from right, a raving lunatic, and a boy whose heart was so dark, we could barely stand to rest upon his breast." Helga shivered.

Morgan smiled sadly. "That's my Tom. And by the way, I should point out that he's your heir—Mr. Irresponsible."

Slytherin lifted an elegant brow. Morgan crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue before something suddenly occurred to her—

"Tom! Oh, wow! You guys didn't like Tom, so you almost killed him, right? Because when I saw him with the Necklace, it was seared into his palm, all ugly and infected."

"Yes," Godric said, "served the little brat right. One of the meanest people I've ever met. If you had not peeled the Necklace from him, it would have killed him."

"Ah," Morgan said, "and when he put the Necklace on me…"

"We recognized that you were to be our host. Our magic awakened, and we used it to heal you."

"Then how come I'm sick again? How come I'm going to die?"

Helga rose from her chair and sat upon the couch with Morgan. She placed an arm over the thin witch's shoulder and pointed at the raging hearth. "You see that fire there?"

"Sure do."

"That's our life force. As long as that fire stays lit, we stay conscious and alive, living inside of you. But it is your life, your heartbeat that fans the flames. Without you, the flames die and our magic is useless. We can only heal as long as we stay connected with you, near your heart."

"So I was healed, but then I took you off, so your magic stopped working, and I just began deteriorating again?"

"Exactly," Rowena said, "think of this as mutualism. We are both benefiting from each other. We are keeping you alive, and you are keeping us alive."

"Well. Shit."

"There is one other thing you must know before you go," Rowena said seriously. "We only have the power to bond to one person in our existence."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean…if you die, Morgan Caldwell, Time-Traveler and lover of Tom Marvolo Riddle, then so do we."

"The Founders' Necklace will become a simple piece of jewelry after your death, and all the power in it, all of our magic, will die with you."

* * *

**A/N: Yeah, Morgan has some identity issues-what teenager doesn't?**


End file.
